


No Other Way

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Series: Harm's Way [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prison, Light Angst, M/M, alternate universe - psych ward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27315028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: There was a moment when he thought Mickey was going to jump him- attack him with fists and teeth. Maybe for a moment he considered it. Instead, he scowled darkly and showed both middle fingers, before stalking away to the cells.But some part of Ian refused to leave it alone, leave him alone. The curiosity that had ridden him since the first day Mickey had shown up in the psych unit still held Ian in its grips, and until he got some kind of answer as to how Mickey had ended up here, he couldn’t seem to let it rest.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Harm's Way [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004793
Comments: 44
Kudos: 132





	1. Crashed a car with you/Should have split in two

[ Can you feel the sun - Missio ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uE2sEkBmMVE)

In retrospect, there was no way blowing up the van ( _ or really, directing his followers to blow up the van _ ) could have ended without consequences. But Ian Gallagher, the eponymous Gay Jesus, hadn’t anticipated ending up in the jail’s psych ward, until he was mentally fit to stand trial.

It had only been through the intervention of Lip and Fiona that he’d gotten a decent lawyer, one who’d argued that he couldn’t participate in his own defence due to his unmedicated bipolar disorder. A judge had ( _ grudgingly _ ) agreed, and he’d been sent to the ward to try various medications until he found a stable combination.

He remembered feeling gleeful, cocky, as the police had cuffed him and escorted him into the SUV. The sense of righteousness had flowed through him like warm syrup, right into his first weeks in jail. His grandiose plans and thinking had allowed him to manipulate the other inmates. Every time Fiona or Lip had come by to talk to him, he’d spent their time ranting about the conditions, his machinations, the feelings of being watched. That was the paranoia, he knew now. Maybe the preaching in the exercise yard, officiating gay marriages there in a final ‘fuck you’ to the establishment, that just been a fucking symptom as well, right before Fiona paid his bail. He remembered fighting against the guards who had come to release him, and if that wasn’t proof of his lack of mental balance, nothing ever could be.

The pretrial hearing hadn’t gone well. His lawyer, again paid for with Fiona’s money, had argued, quite effectively, that due to Ian’s untreated mental illness, he was unable to participate meaningfully in his own defence. But the judge didn’t trust him to seek help without consequences, so they sentenced him to lockup in the behavioral health unit of the prison until such point as his symptoms were under control. 

He’d been with his family, on the last afternoon. First sitting uncomfortably in the living room, deep in his own depression, the mania having peaked and dropped him. He hadn’t showered, and his hair was dark with grease. They drove up to the prison, but didn’t head through the main entrance: instead they’d been directed to the secure medical wing, which had a seperate way in. There was still barbed wire on the top of the fence, shiny and cruel in the late day sun.

His whole family was there, plus the people who were family in all but blood. He could see the fear in their eyes as they looked at him, and he tried for a smile, pulling himself up through the murky gray of his mind, trying to remember how to make his face look pleasant. The tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes as he stood, looking for the right words of comfort to offer. How had he been so good at this, at knowing what to say, just a few short weeks ago? 

When he was manic, he lived in denial of his illness. Everything felt so vivid, so good, and so clear, that the notion that the feelings were the product of unstable chemicals seemed impossible. But when he was depressed, he believed to his core that he was broken: deeply, utterly, and fundamentally flawed. 

In the end, words failed them all, and they relied instead on holding each other, letting the language of touch speak the words their hearts couldn’t voice. They were scared for him, and he was scared for himself. If he got better, he’d stand trial, and face the charges. If he didn’t… well, he’d stay in limbo. 

He’d been locked up in a psych ward before, but that was at a hospital. It had been one of the most disempowering times of his life, but he’d adjusted, eventually. The routines and rhythms of the place had soothed him. A prison behavioral health unit was unlikely to be a place of rest and recovery, he knew. Their job here wasn’t to heal damaged minds, not really. It was simply to stabilize inmates enough that they could stand trial.

All he wanted to do was go find a corner to curl up in and sleep. No hopes beyond the yawning emptiness of sleep. No dreams, no future, no pain, only sleep. His family couldn’t come in with him, and the intake process was just like it had been for jail. He walked through doors that echoed as they locked behind him. He’d emptied his pockets first, depositing his ( _ empty _ ) wallet and watch in the plastic baggie provided. Slowly, every movement taking all his energy, he had stripped, been issued safe clothing, redressing carefully. In jail, he’d done intake with a crowd of other men of all ages. Here in the behavioral health unit, he was the only one. 

It made his vulnerability and nakedness more apparent, being surrounded by fully dressed guards and CO’s, looking on casually as his pasty white ass hung out. Did he feel their eyes taking him in, or was that just the paranoia? What were they thinking about him- did they recognize him from the news? From somewhere else, maybe the strip club where he’d danced? The thought held a special kind of horror, that one of these people to whom his life was entrusted had once slid dirty bills into his tight little shorts- he could only hope that hadn’t happened. 

Finally, they led him deeper into the building, walking down long gray corridors of locked doors and no windows. He ended up in a small interview room, where a clinician interviewed him briefly. They had all his medical records, but they asked him to confirm which medications he’d taken, and at which doses, what side effects he’d experienced, and how severely. Shamefaced, he explained that most of the mood stabilizers had led to sexual side effects. The med tech laughed humorlessly, then glanced at him, realizing he was serious.

“That don’t matter here. All we do is meds, maybe a little CBT, DBT, and group therapy thrown in for good measure. Mainly trial and error medications until you have enough marbles that we can send you back to court.”

At last he was escorted to his room, which was a cell in all but name, shown the layout, and left to sit in the dayroom. Ian pulled his knees to his chest and laid his head down on them. He closed his eyes. He thought of the sun, but could only feel the industrial-cold air being blown through the room. He imagined the breeze wasn’t made by the vast air-conditioning units but swept to him across Lake Michigan. It didn’t work. He could hear voices, other inmates muttering to themselves. He could smell some cafeteria food, leftover lunch or dinner cooking, he couldn’t tell. 

Over the next few weeks, he learned the ropes. The prison psych unit had the same sort of schedule he remembered from being at the inpatient hospital. Early wake up, breakfast, group, one-on-one counseling, lunch, another group, recreation time, dinner, followed by some type of optional group, usually a 12-step program. Ian skipped AA and NA, but sometimes he sat in on the Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting, just to listen. 

Most men in the unit stayed 6-8 weeks, some less and some more, depending on how long it took the docs to find the right combination of meds. At the beginning, the other inmates were sort of a blur to Ian. He quickly assessed who was a threat and who was more likely to be the target of a threat, making sure to stay away from both. As the weeks went on, he learned their stories, and quickly grew bored of hearing the same shit every day, in every group. The only thing that changed was the facilitator, and how dopey everyone was from their current med cocktail. If this was how his whole time there was going to be, Ian thought he could handle it. It wasn’t exciting, but all he had to do was take the pills, and talk sometimes. He could basically sleepwalk through the time, just floating aimlessly until something, anything, interesting happened.


	2. But that evil tree/Couldn't take it from me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was something about this guy, the bruises, the eyes, the swagger. His ass, if he was being entirely honest, even though Ian and his dick weren’t currently on speaking terms.

[Trouble’s Coming - Royal Blood ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuYSarZXzrE)

It was the middle of Ian’s third week in the psych unit of the prison. His current medication regimen was heavy on the tranquilizers, after a previous cocktail had left him twitching and having panic attacks from anxiety. Every day it was harder and harder to wake up, harder to bother finding a clean jumpsuit, harder to remember why he needed to eat, hard to keep his eyes open in group. He was drifting off a lot, he knew that, but he couldn’t push his way from the depths enough to care. On the day in question, he was in the Trauma-Process Group. The name sounded official, but it had devolved into yet another complaining and bitching session, facilitated by a bored tech. Ian sat at one end of the long plastic table, elbows propped on the surface, eyes slowly sliding closed yet again.

He jolted when the door to the group room slammed open. One of the guards stood there, next to a new inmate. Patient? Patient-inmate? Whatever they were called, the new guy looked _rough_. He had dark hair, and blue eyes, but above the deep, dark, bruised circles, his colored irises sat in a haze of red spidery veins. The blue of his eyes was offset by his fine eyebrows. There was a nasty scrape on his brow, and another on the same cheek, like he’d taken a leap out of a moving vehicle. His neck was swathed in layers of gauze, but the sleeves of his jumpsuit had been rolled carefully to mid bicep. He was gripping a small whiteboard, with a dry erase marker attached to a roll of fabric tape, his fingers white with tension. 

Ian could see tattoos peeking up from his collarbone and across his knuckles. Aside from looking like he’d just lost a fight with a MAC truck, the guy was also scrappy looking. Even through the baggy yellow jumpsuit, Ian could see that. He wasn’t tall, no, he was probably one of the shortest guys in the room, but he had something, like a swagger, even as he stood in the doorway looking as if he’d jump anyone who glanced at him sideways. 

“This is Milkovich. Milkovich, this is Trauma-Process group. Sit down, and shut up. Milkovich don’t talk right now.” This last was directed to the tech running the group, but everyone in the room was watching and listening. This was the most excitement they’d seen in weeks. Admissions weren’t uncommon, but admissions in the middle of group time were always a source of interest, and when the new fish didn’t talk? That was _news_. The tech, who’d been listening with barely concealed disinterest to Enzo delineate all the ways his kids had fucked him over, nodded and gestured for Milkovich to sit in an empty seat, which the guy did, still clutching the whiteboard like a security blanket.

“Welcome to Trauma-Process group. Here, we discuss the things that we thought we could never tell anyone, the things that motivated our unhealthy behaviors.” The tech’s speech might have had a modicum of efficacy if it hadn’t been delivered in a monotonous drone born of rote repetition. 

“Do you want to introduce yourself to the group?”

The guy who had just barely settled himself into the chair looked around in disbelief, before pointing one finger at himself, eyebrow cocked as if to say, ‘ _Who, me_?’

“You can write it if you have to.” At least this reply from the tech wasn’t rote.

The new guy rolled his eyes. He wedged the whiteboard between his thigh and the side of the chair and pulled up his fists. His left hand was balled up so the tattooed knuckles were readable. On the right hand, only his index finger was curled and visible, the other fingers pointed out straight, obscuring the letters. It took a moment, but Ian could finally read the message. 

_FUCK U_

Ian’s mouth twitched, surprising him. Nothing struck him as funny these days, not under the weight of all these milligrams and the ever-present impending feelings of doom elicited by the trial and sentencing. 

The tech didn’t smile, but he also didn’t push the issue. He moved the discussion back to Enzo, trying to encourage him to think about why his children hated him so much ( _possibly the raging alcoholism and narcissistic personality disorder_.)

Eventually, the group ended, and the men all shuffled away to kill time before dinner. A loose collection of them were gathered on the plastic sofas watching a home renovation show. They weren’t allowed to watch anything potentially triggering, so mostly what they watched were cooking shows and Goofy People Buying Goofier Houses, as Ian had internally dubbed HGTV. 

But the new guy wasn’t with them. He was still sitting in the group room. He’d put his little whiteboard down on the table top, and was using the dry erase marker, not to write but to draw. At first, Ian couldn’t make it out. He was still standing in the doorway, torn between entering the room and breaking into the man’s private time, and sneaking off to his room for yet another dreamless nap.

Soon though, the picture emerged. It was some sort of [ five-pointed star ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/51e8bce5aed00028b5b061090fc7f938/84b73361247281fb-c0/s640x960/0f7d691b0857c42ee57ae86bdfc8b6d095152336.gifv), with thin, elongated arms and dark shadows. Ian stood, mildly captivated by the process of the emerging image. That might have had something to do with the major tranquilizers he was on, but he thought some of it was also the new inmate’s skill, even with a shitty dry erase marker on a smudgy white board. 

Why did he stay though, in that doorway, between the crowd and intruding on the first moments of solitary time the man may have had in ages? Why did Ian do it? He didn’t really know. There was something about this guy, the bruises, the eyes, the swagger. His ass, if he was being entirely honest, even though Ian and his dick weren’t currently on speaking terms.

This was unlike all the versions of himself he knew. When he was manic, he wanted to be around people, all the people, and all the noise, all the time. Even in the middle of a packed subway car he could still think his own thoughts, trace their byzantine routes and recall every nuanced detail. When he was depressed, he couldn’t stand other people. Their very breathing irritated his skin, like sandpaper across his mind. Even his family knew well enough to leave him be, drawn the curtains and given him a dark quiet place to hide until his mind released him.

But this. This was something different, this liminal space between wellness and instability, between the new and the old. A sudden wave of dizziness passed over him, and he reached out, clutching the plastic and metal door frame for support as the world around him went grey at the edges. Well, grey-er, just for a moment.

By the time he looked back up, the new inmate was staring at him, an expression halfway between irritation and concern across his face. He was chewing his lip, an anxious habit that drew Ian’s eyes.

The dark haired man arched one perfect brow, and clear as day, Ian knew what he was asking. 

“Yeah, I’m ok. Side effects of the meds. Lightheadedness, low blood sugar, all the good stuff.”

The man nodded, glancing back down to the whiteboard, tapping the end of the dry erase marker against his philtrum as he thought.

Ian knew he was being dismissed, left to his own devices. But he wanted more.

“So. Nice scarf.”

Those blue eyes flickered up to Ian’s, brows drawn down in irritation. 

“I know, I know, not a scarf. Still. Been tryin’ to figure out what happened that you’d need that. Best I can figure is someone tried to strangle you for talkin’ too much.”

The guy wasn’t looking at him anymore, but Ian could still see one eyebrow twitch slightly at the joke. He leaned casually on the door frame, feeling more awake than he had in weeks.

“Ok, so you were out on the mean streets and said the wrong shit to the wrong person, and they tried to wring your neck, literally. But what I can’t figure is how that ended you up here in wonderland.”

The blue gaze was back, a little confusion evident.

“Wonderland? Alice? Where they gave her pills to make her larger and some pills to make her small?”

A little huff escaped the guy’s full lips. Well. At least he was capable of making some noises, that was good to know.

“You’re gonna tell me eventually. I can be very persistent.”

The guy was obviously ignoring him now, pretending not to hear, so Ian slid into the room, until he bent over, right next to the chair the guy sat in. He placed one large palm on the tabletop next to the white board, and whispered in the guy’s ear.

“You know the difference between a sex doll and a store mannaquin? Persistence.”

Without losing his momentum, Ian spun and headed back to the doorway, just pausing to glance back. Milkovich hadn’t looked up, but there was a half quirk of his lips, the barest suggestion of a smile at the dumb joke.

“Good talk, let’s do this again,” Ian said.

The little quirk was now a reluctant [ smile ](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/shameless-us/images/1/1f/Mickey_profile_pic.jpg/revision/latest/top-crop/width/360/height/450?cb=20180909190801&fbclid=IwAR1hbMdY6BrGOKKUWQeWGlsjG1ir3mmJaIIIyNCAlx-KnN2I_3r4G5DNN8I), and Ian left him there for now. 


	3. I never care/What people say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one’s story in here was a nice one, but this story, read on the man’s skin and not told by his mouth, was different, somehow.

[ Losing my Grip - Junior Mesa ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZCMnz-rmrY)

The next day brought another shitty breakfast. On the one hand, the food was one step up from traditional prison food, in terms of choices. But the textures were all soft, the flavors all bland. Some bullshit about being ‘easier to digest’. It meant that breakfast was mushy oatmeal, soggy pancakes, or rubbery eggs. All the ketchup and hot sauce in the world couldn’t make them taste better, plus there was no coffee.

There was  _ decaf  _ coffee,  _ decaf  _ tea, milk, even apple juice. No caffeine allowed. Ian had asked, at the onset of the most recent med change that had him wanting to sleep 20 hours a day. It wasn’t that being awake here was so great, but just that it felt oddly wrong to literally sleep his life away, hours, days, and weeks passing by. 

But since the day before, Ian had felt an odd sense of newfound energy. Even without the caffeine, he’d woken up on his own at 6 am. Maybe his body was finally learning the routine, or maybe the mystery of Milkovich had something to do with it.

The guy had come into breakfast yawning sleepily, face puffy from his rest. The bandaging on his neck had been changed, but he still looked like he was wearing a weird, off-white, fluffy scarf wound tightly around his neck. The bruises under his eyes were lighter, but the abrasions on his face had new depth and vividness. 

He’d lazily perused the foods on offer, before settling on a bowl of plain cereal. But rather than simply pouring milk in, he went first to the condiments area, and started ladling spoonfuls of sugar over the dry flakes. Ian watched in silent amazement. Finally satisfied with the amount of sugar he’d added, the guy went back and poured the milk. Then he seemed to realize he needed to sit down, couldn’t simply spoon the diabetes soup into his mouth standing in a corner, and so looked around the tables. Each had four seats, and there were more tables than needed, so every table had at least one seat empty. No tables were entirely empty but some, like Ian’s, had only one person seated.

Did Ian  _ want  _ Milkovich to come sit with him? Or did he want to be invisible a while longer? Inside he was waging a war between wanting to encourage the guy and wanting to maintain the facade of indifference. He looked away, hoping his weirdness wasn’t being noticed. But it didn’t work. A pair of stompy feet came his way, and carelessly deposited the bowl of sucrose onto the table, milk slopping over the edge of the bowl as the guy sat down.

Ian defiantly lifted his head, unwilling to be cowed or intimidated. But Milkovich didn’t even make eye contact, just dropped gracelessly into the seat and began to swiftly spoon the slop into his mouth, chewing loudly.

It wasn’t what Ian had expected. Not that he thought they’d made some deep soul connection the previous afternoon, but to be so ignored, like he was a piece of furniture- it dragged up feelings of depersonalization he didn’t want to look at too closely. He felt a burning need to make the guy notice him, interact with him,  _ see  _ him.

“Morning, sunshine.” The flirty tone was rusty as hell, but he thought he’d get some type of reaction. 

Nothing. He knew Milkovich wasn’t deaf, so either the ignoring was continuing, or he didn’t realize Ian meant him.

“You don’t have to inhale the food, no one’s gonna take it from you.” As soon as the words came out, Ian knew that was  _ exactly  _ why the guy was bolting his cereal. At some point, either in a previous institution or at home, food had been scarce, something to fight over and hoard, eat as fast as possible before it could be snatched away. Upon closer inspection, despite the guy’s muscles, Ian could tell he probably was meant to have a… thicker build. His leanness was purely a product of deprivation. 

The thought, the causes, they hurt Ian’s heart. No one’s story in here was a nice one, but this story, read on the man’s skin and not told by his mouth, was different, somehow.

He was so caught up in the little mental tornado caused by the man’s eating habits that he missed that he was the one being observed now. Milkovich had finally looked up from his bowl ( _ but not before noisily slurping down the dregs of sugary milk _ ), and was taking the time to look at Ian’s face. The intense study felt odd, and Ian felt a blush flare on his cheeks. 

There was some scrambling from Milkovich, and he produced the shitty whiteboard and marker. A few quick strokes and he flipped it so Ian could read the message.

**_Name?_ **

“Ian. Gallagher. You can call me- well, you won’t call me anything, I guess. But you can call me whatever you want.” He could hear himself babbling, but the engagement, the interest, however miniscule, was doing fizzy things to his stomach.

Milkovich rolled his eyes, and sighed, pulling the whiteboard back and rubbing out the question. 

“Time for group! Finish up!” A female tech was the one hurrying them along. Hurrying them for no reason, as far as Ian could tell. Who cared if they were five minutes late to a group no one wanted to go to and no one got anything out of?

But Milkovich seemed to take the direction to heart, cramming his whiteboard under one arm and gathering his empty cereal bowl up. Ian watched, wondering if he’d fucked something up. The self-doubts were not just a product of his mental illness, they were also part of his personality, always questioning his actions, analyzing the effects, considering alternatives.

Normally he’d be caught in the spiral of self-doubt, but something distracted him. Milkovich was just walking across the eating area, but Ian’s eyes were drawn like magnets. It was something about the shape of his shoulders, too thin, but broad. He couldn’t pick out any details of the waist in the bulky jumpsuit, but what he did have a fine view of was an epically beautiful ass, nestled neatly above strong legs. Ian had a vision of the way this man would look, 30 or 40 pounds heavier, so handsome and strong. It took his breath away and his mouth was dry.

Shaking himself, Ian hurried to put his own tray away, realizing he would probably follow that Milkovich ass for miles, tongue lolling. 


	4. I live my life/No other way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, man, can you imagine? A gay Milkovich? No wonder he wanted to fuckin’ die.”

[ Me No Evil - Abhi the Nomad ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnJYqaaKqhg)

Ian woke up to the distinctly unpleasant sensation of wet fabric clinging to his crotch. For a moment, the only thing he could think of was that he’d pissed himself in his sleep. He’d done it in the past, when extremely wasted on some substance or other, but never because of medication. He peeled back the tan polyester blanket, and one sniff told him the real story. 

_ Wet dreams? At his age? _

They must have been changing his meds again, he concluded. He didn’t always notice when they did that, or when they told him they were going to. It seemed like every week it was a new combination, maybe more often, even that he wasn’t sure of. But the tranquilizers kept him soft as a baby, so for him to get off, even in his sleep- this was new. It gave him  _ ideas _ , and he suppressed the shiver of desire that rolled through his body.

The morning cycle of chaos hadn’t begun yet; the wet sticky feeling must have woken him early. His room was his alone, for now. Various roommates had come and gone, names and faces he cannot recall. That shiver returned, stronger now, and he took his dick in his hand. He wasn’t hard, not yet, but he could be, and that was new. Aside from holding his cock to piss, he hadn’t so much as thought of sex for weeks. Now, he knew he could get hard, could probably get off pretty easily, despite having just come in his dream. The need was there, like a banked fire being suddenly stoked, flames arcing and spitting sparks.

The bell rang, and throughout the hallway groans and grunts echoed. Other patient-inmates were waking up. The window of opportunity had closed. For now. But knowing he  _ could _ \- that was exciting in a way he had not felt without accompanying mania. 

\---

Breakfast was uneventful. Milkovich sat with him again, but they didn’t make even one-sided conversation. That was ok. Not everyone was a morning person: there was something in Ian that went soft just at the look of the man’s sleep-mussed hair. Thought he’d never say anything. Not here.

After breakfast, Ian had a one-on-one session with his prescriber, Cynthia. She was an advanced practice nurse, so she mostly asked him about side effects, and rating his symptoms. 

Truthfully he told her he felt pretty good, and that earned him a sharp, appraising look.

“Good, Mr. Gallagher, or  _ good _ ?”

He knew what she meant. Did he feel stable and healthy, or like he was slipping into mania again? He paused, considering. 

“I think I feel just good. Not high, or at least not very.” Honesty was best, when someone was in charge of the drugs pumped into your bloodstream. Having an orgasm and being ready to go again right away, that hypersexuality, could be a sign of mania. Or it could just be his normal libido returning with a vengeance.  _ Hard to know, harder to tell. _

Cynthia paused, tip-tapping the keys of her computer as she entered notes. 

“No thoughts of suicide or self-harm?”

“Nope. Nothing like that.”

“OK, fine. We’ll keep titrating your dose up, see how that works out. Might make you a little queasy, give you the runs, so take it easy, stay close to the restroom.”

Ian nodded, seething inwardly. Hearing how dismissive she was, how casually she wrote off side effects like that, like it was normal to have to shit so urgently that he wouldn’t be able to walk down a hallway. But he kept his composure, kept his face pleasant and relaxed. The anger could be a symptom of mania too, or he could have a legitimate reason to be pissed. 

Finally, she shoo-ed him off to the morning group, which he knew was just ending. If he dawdled a little, he wouldn’t have to sit through any of it, so he hung back, taking the long way through the cells, ducking into his for just a moment, prepared with a pretense about feeling chilly, needing a sweater. As he was pretending to go through his sparse belongings, really just going through the motions, he heard two techs coming about the corner, chatting amiably.

“... that Milkovich reputation, huh?” Ian had missed whatever the first tech had started to say, but when he heard the new guy’s name, he froze, hoping to hear more.

“Yeah, man, can you imagine? A gay Milkovich? No wonder he wanted to fuckin’ die.”

Whatever the techs said next went over Ian’s head, as his mind reeled. A gay Milkovich. Milkovich had wanted to die. Had the guy tried to kill himself because he was gay? That felt so… unnecessary. Wasteful, even. 

Now the white neck bandages were even more of a mystery to Ian. What lay beneath? A scar, raw and red, from a sharp knife? A thick welt, from a rough rope? Handprints smudged in bruises? He was sure Milkovich didn’t have any intention of explaining, but he’d find out, somehow. Now that he knew the guy was gay, maybe he didn’t have to feel quite so guilty about the sharp blue eyes he remembered from that dream last night. 

Come to think of it, how had a suicide attempt ended the guy up in the prison psych ward? It wasn’t a crime to commit suicide, or try to, unless he’d been in the process of some other crime when he was found. The mystery’s deepening only intrigued Ian further.

\---

At lunch, Milkovich wasn’t there, which wasn’t unusual. Oftentimes individual appointments were scheduled during meals: patients meals were less important than clinician’s time, it seemed. The dining staff would leave out a bowl of fruit and graham crackers for whoever’d missed the meal, and while it wasn’t much, it was better than an empty stomach.

Ian quickly ate his sandwich of white bread and cold cuts, made marginally more bearable with the addition of both mayo and mustard, and then waited for the next session of “therapy.”

It was music group, which sounded fine as a concept, but was basically just a tech playing classic music off of Youtube while they all sat and stared at each other, the floor, the ceiling, or the inside of their eyelids. Moments after the first song had begun playing (some guitar-based  [ Beatles cover ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qm3thJUSMjA) with raindrops in the background-  _ were the raindrops real or in his mind? _ ) Milkovich stalked in, claiming the seat next to Ian’s at the table with a frustrated grunt. His little whiteboard was in his hand, and Ian could see the remnants of his side of a written conversation, or at least he could see that there had been words written, though he couldn’t read any of them at this angle.

“Ok, gentlemen, we’re coming into the chorus now, so feel free to sing along, or clap, or tap your feet!” James, the tech who facilitated the music group, always gave these instructions, as if anyone but the most catatonic among the men would ever be caught dead  _ singing along _ to this bastardization of the Beatles.

But Milkovich half turned, catching Ian’s eye with a little  [ smirk ](https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/583464267359236096/1oo547Qv_400x400.jpg) , as if to say,  _ oh yeah _ ?

He began to beat out a rhythm on the white plastic table in front of them, with one palm and one fist. The arm of one side of his jumpsuit was pushed up, and Ian could see faint silvery lines on his arm. The rhythm he was beating out wasn’t actually the song’s rhythm, but he didn’t seem bothered. Everyone in the room stared, but James acted like this was a normal, natural response to his instructions.

“Right on, Mickey! Keep it up!”

_ Who the hell was Mickey? _

Before Ian could ponder that question, a few of the other men seated at the table had picked up Milkovich’s beat and joined, stomping the floor with their soft-soled shoes or smacking their thighs through the thin fabric of the jumpsuit. Ian joined in, hitting the table hesitantly at first, but soon catching Milkovich’s rhythm. It felt good, making noise like that. His hands were soon flushed and warm from the repeated impacts, and the Beatles song had probably ended, but no one could tell over the racket they were all making. 

James’ face had begun to show a little concern, a growing suspicion that he had fucked up, somehow. Milkovich was having a good time, and had somehow transformed the beat into one Ian recognized, the bump-bump-slap bump-bump-slap of some old Queen song. Instead of progressing to words, the group seemed to have an unspoken agreement to simply increase the volume and intensity. A few random techs had wandered in, moues of displeasure deepening. 

Milkovich was standing now, had to stand to get enough intensity to his fist bangs and slaps on the tabletop. As he angled his torso to get the leverage, he stuck out his ass, drawing Ian’s hungry eyes. Even though he was still far too skinny, 36 hours of food not doing enough to fill in the hollows in his cheeks, his ass looked like he’d never missed a meal. It was positively fat. Ian’s hands itched to squeeze. Maybe Milkovich felt the weight of Ian’s stare, maybe it was a lifetime of watching his back against such gazes, but suddenly the blue eyes were staring accusingly at Ian, filled with a burning vitriol. 

The hate sobered Ian, bringing him back to the present. His rhythm faltered and died, and he sat back in his chair, eyes trained on his empty lap, fists clenched so tightly that his nails were biting into his palms. The pain grounded him, reminded him of who and where he was. This wasn’t a romance movie, this was just a marginally less than worst case ending for his life.

With Milkovich’s attention diverted, however briefly, the rest of the group’s antics quickly petered out. The techs who had gathered began to hustle the men out, offering them free time until dinner. Ian skipped the TV area, bypassed the few men he sometimes exchanged pleasantries with, and headed back to his cell. He laid down on the bed, pulling the thin blanket over his head. A few tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, and he angrily knuckled them away. It was stupid to be sad over a mean look. He was stupid, just so stupid.


	5. Yeah we could die/A million ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it was the meds, whatever they’d been giving him setting his hair trigger, winding him up too tightly. That was the only way he could explain the sudden rage that suffused his body, the fucking temerity of this man, to take something so small from someone who had so little and had suffered so much.

Ian wasn’t actually stupid. He knew that. Sometimes it took him a little longer to reach the same conclusions that were obvious to Lip, but he got there eventually. So when he came out for dinner and sat next to Milkovich, the answer to the question he asked seemed entirely obvious.

“Is your name actually Mickey, or is it just a nickname?”

The guy looked at Ian warily and made a sort of back-and-forth gesture with his hand. At least they were ‘talking’ again. Ian got the message, but was still curious.

“How’s that work, it’s  _ sort of _ your name?”

Milkovich heaved another of those irritated sighs, but pulled out the smudged whiteboard. 

**_name/nickname_ **

That made sense, he guessed. “Well, can I call you that?”

The guy shrugged neutrally, as if it wasn’t a big deal, or didn’t matter, or Ian almost didn’t exist. But Ian was undeterred. 

“Ok, Mickey, good to meet you.” He stuck out his hand, expecting to be eyed up and dismissed, if not outright ignored. But the guy, Mickey Milkovich, after a quick glance around to make sure they weren’t being watched, grabbed Ian’s giant paw with his own tattooed fingers and gave it the briefest of shakes, just a touch, really. 

In bed that night, Ian replayed every detail of the encounter. The texture ( _ rough _ ) of Mickey’s fingers on his skin, the temperature of the touch ( _ warm, so warm _ ), and even what he might have meant, by touching Ian ( _??? _ ).

He latched onto every little nugget of personal information about the guy like each was an acorn and he was an industrious squirrel. He thought them over, mulled each one, during his meals, during groups, and especially in the dark of his cell at night.

When Mickey was near him, he’d study him surreptitiously, trying to figure out what was going on in his head. When they weren’t in the same room, some part of Ian was always on the alert, tracking where Mickey might be, when he might happen into the same space. Was it obsessive and unhealthy? Maybe. But he wasn’t doing anything  _ bad _ , he hadn’t even pressed for deeper conversation despite his unremitting desire to know the real story of how Mickey ended up here.

He thought about whether what the techs had said was true, that Mickey had tried to kill himself because he was gay. He thought about the thin red, pink, and silver lines he’d seen, when he got a glimpse of Mickey’s skin. He thought about what it would be like to be constantly hungry and not able to show who he really was. To feel so trapped by his own identity and desires that death looked like the better way out. 

Ian understood suicidal ideation: that was well trodden ground for him. But wanting to die because of being gay, that was harder to wrap his mind around. What kind of family could he have, what kind of life must Mickey have led, out there? Who were his friends, who knew his secrets? Did  _ anyone _ ? Why did the thought of Mickey sharing whispered secrets in a voice Ian had yet to hear leave him with a sour feeling in his stomach?

\---

One thing Ian had noticed was that Milkovich loved sugar. Like, loved it to the point that Ian was pretty sure all his teeth should have been rotting out of his head, except they patently weren’t. On the incredibly rare occasion that he dropped the grim scowl and let a smile slip, his teeth were white and even. Ian wanted to  _ taste  _ them, feel their texture with his tongue or his finger or-

It was dinner time. Another useless day had gone by, filled with pointless groups, more little white cups of nameless pills, and capped off with a mushy overcooked casserole for dinner.

But dessert.

Just like in prison, the men were served all the “courses” of their meal at once, a wilted salad, a too-hard soft roll, shapeless lump of carbohydrates, and a clear plastic dish of red jello, capped with whipped topping. They didn’t always get dessert, but most days there was something, like a container of two dry chocolate chip cookies, or a mini bag of M&Ms. 

Ian had seen Mickey’s attention transfixed by the jello as soon as they entered the dining space. They spent the days mostly together, Ian babbling away when he felt like it, or silent when the meds made it too hard to talk. Mickey seemed to be ignoring him, but if asked a direct question that wasn’t too personal, could usually be relied upon to gesture or write out an answer.

This response to the jello was new. It wasn’t the mask of indifference Mickey wore like armor: it held an almost-childlike sense of wonder.

Unsurprisingly, Mickey saved his jello for last. Ian watched him practically inhale the rest of his dinner, shoveling it in without regard for niceties like chewing or breathing. Ian was still picking sadly at the excuse for a salad, tearing up his roll and dropping crumbs on his plate, when Mickey pushed his empty plate away, and pulled the small dish containing the red jello closer. 

It was at that moment that another of the patient-inmates chose to come join their table for a chat. Well, really Jonesy was there to grill Mickey about some family business, and Ian was an unfortunate bystander. But when Jonesy slid into the seat next to Mickey, and reached out one tanned hand, snagging the dessert Mickey’d been about to dip a spoon into, Ian saw red.

Maybe it was the meds, whatever they’d been giving him setting his hair trigger, winding him up too tightly. That was the only way he could explain the sudden rage that suffused his body, the fucking temerity of this man, to take something so small from someone who had so little and had suffered so much- he leapt out of his seat and shoved Jonesy, sending the heavier man sprawling on the linoleum. 

Once the man was down, Ian bent and grabbed him, holding him in place so he could get a few good body hits. Techs, counselors, even the fucking cook, were all swarming on them in a moment, pulling Ian and Jonesy apart from where they lay, exchanging blows. Jonesy got a few hits in, but Ian got more. Mickey still sat at the table, mostly unperturbed. Maybe he would have been more put out by the disturbance, but Ian saw out of the corner of one rapidly swelling eye that Mickey had taken the opportunity to swipe  _ two  _ dishes of red jello from a nearby table, and was taking quick, stealthy bites. 

Perhaps, as always, sensing Ian’s eyes on him, Mickey looked up. Ian was relieved to see not disgust, but a small  [ smile ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EOFcD0vWkAM7LB3.jpg) of acknowledgement, eyebrow raised as if he were surprised by Ian. Maybe even grateful. It was worth all the bruising and blows in the world, to see Mickey’s blue eyes look on him with that warmth. The thought kept him content for the three days in secure housing, aka solitary, and increased tranquilizers that he got for attacking Jonesy. Totally worth it. 


	6. But we’re alive/Another day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt strange to label a man who didn’t talk as quieter than usual, but there it was.

Their camaraderie continued to grow. Slowly, by fits and starts. Mostly Ian talked, and Mickey listened, making eloquent contributions to the conversation through facial expressions alone. Occasionally and with no rhyme or reason Ian could discern, he’d piss Mickey off. Or Mickey would wake up pissed off. Or his meds would make him pissed off. He’d stomp around, extra grumpy, throwing knuckle curses in everyone’s direction.

_ FUCK _

_ FUCK U _

_ U FUCK _

And the ever expressive ( _ or for extra special occasions, double _ ) middle finger. 

Ian got used to it. Mickey never tried to hurt Ian, just some days he woke up like a cat who’d had all his hair rubbed the wrong way, an accident looking for the spot marked “X.”

Other days, Mickey was sadder, quieter. It felt strange to label a man who didn’t talk as quieter than usual, but there it was. He seemed smaller on those days too, almost shrunken in on himself, despite the weight Ian’s eyes happily counted being added to his frame. The small moments of contentment, if they could be called that, Ian only managed to ever catch by accident. He’d tell the dumbest joke, or point out someone about to make a foolish mistake, and Mickey’s eyes would crinkle, right above his nose, and Ian would feel like he’d won the lottery.

\---

It was just another interminable afternoon, Ian and Mickey sat on one of the plastic couches in the dayroom, watching the other men in the unit. Two were playing on the ancient video game console, some competitive driving game Ian vaguely remembered being released when he was in middle school.    
  


A new Corrections Officer had just joined the unit, and a tech was showing the guy around. The new CO wasn’t as tall as Ian, but he was very fit, muscles bulging everywhere, as Ian’s once had, but no longer. What they shared in common was the bright red hair, though the CO, named Powers, had his buzzed short, while Ian’s was a bit shaggy from his time in the unit. Powers was clean shaven, where Ian had full  [ scruff ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/02b3400d3f6d126cbe44951a58ec9575/tumblr_po6mdauoaF1vpr107_1280.jpg) going on. It wasn’t like there was a competition for hottest redhead in the room, until Ian saw with amazement and disbelief that Mickey was eyeing Powers up like a bowl of jello, biting his lower lip as he scanned the man up and down.

Ian knew Mickey was gay, or had at least accepted the possibility that the rumour of his sexual identity might be true. What did it mean though, if he hated that part of himself and was at the same time drawn to men like Powers?

He studied Mickey more closely, distantly aware that at some point Mickey would notice his scrutiny, and the reason for it. Mickey hadn’t been in the unit long enough to grow more than token facial hair at this point but his hair hadn’t been  [ neatly-kempt ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/3f1467f761a24839940db378ba6fc090/c015cebb077ae958-9f/s250x400/7bf1d3df397b80b3b6bcd6847ce977ee91d9fedc.gifv) before he’d gotten here, so the longer locks of hair on top had a tendency to fall across his forehead. Every damn time, Ian’s fingers itched to brush it away, and every time, he fisted his hands by his sides, willing them to stay put. Watching him even partially openly lust after another man was inciting a similar feeling in Ian, not to touch, per se but like he was seeing some hidden side of Mickey. He didn’t have any illusions that he could have Mickey, that Mickey could ever be interested in him. That didn’t stop the wet dreams that always featured those cerulean eyes and that compact body, and a voice he could never remember in the morning, cursing in a low voice.

Maybe some of the frustration, of looking but not touching, had built up, maybe that’s why he said it. Maybe his meds were off that day, or maybe he just had a big fuckin’ mouth. Who knows? Whatever the cause, his off-the-cuff remark to Mickey had many consequences.

What he said to Mickey in a hiss was, “This ain’t Macy’s, bitch, stop window shopping.”

He didn’t have to see Mickey’s face head on to get the full effect of his shock. Those dark eyebrows shot up, and the rest of his face froze in an unnatural position of disbelief as he pivoted to look at Ian. 

There was a moment when he thought Mickey was going to jump him- attack him with fists and teeth. Maybe for a moment he considered it. Instead, he scowled darkly and showed both middle fingers, before stalking away to the cells.

But that same relentlessly fascinated part of Ian refused to leave it alone, leave  _ him  _ alone. The curiosity that had ridden him since the first day Mickey had shown up on the unit still held Ian in its grips, and until he got some kind of answer as to how Mickey had ended up here, he couldn’t seem to let it rest.

Mickey had left his white board behind, so Ian grabbed it as an excuse as he went after Mickey, making no pretenses about his destination. One tech passed him as he walked, but the guy didn’t even ask why Ian was nowhere near his own cell, too intent on a cell phone screen to notice him. The cell next to Mickey was occupied by Jonesy, who was sprawled on his bed, snoring loudly in only a stained tee shirt and shorts. The snoring was so loud, Ian noted with distaste. In the next cell, he found Mickey also lying stomach down on his bed, face to the wall. There were a few pairs of boxers strewn on the floor, and a pile of dead dry erase markers in the trash. On the walls were all different pictures, taped up with masking tape. One was a version of the star Ian had seen him drawing the first day, another was a black and white image of a beach. Mickey wasn’t asleep, couldn’t be, since he’d really just walked in, but Ian realized that Jonesy’s snoring had likely hidden the sound of Ian’s footsteps. He’d have to make his presence known somehow.

Using the white board the way a dog catcher uses a catch pole, he reached out with the board and tapped Mickey in the middle of his back. Figured it would be better than putting his hands on the guy when he was already pissed at Ian.

Mickey rubbed his face on the thin pillow as he turned to see who was bothering him. He didn’t speak, but gave a general grunt of frustration when he saw who it was. 

“I wanna talk to you, Mickey. I wanna know why you’re here.”

The dark-haired man gestured around vaguely, as if to say, ‘ _ isn’t it obvious _ ?’

“Not to me, it’s not obvious,” Ian replied to the motion. “What really happened to you? Is it true, what the techs say, that you tried to- tried to hurt yourself, because you’re gay?”

Mickey’s face seemed to break a little at the accusation, and he held up a hand in seeming defeat, swinging his feet to the floor. Ian peered at him closely, still holding out the whiteboard. 

He was caught totally by surprise when Mickey grabbed the board and broadsided him with it, Practically cracking his jaw and the board in the same blow. The shock was what slowed Ian’s responses, or maybe the drugs, but by the time he was ready to start fighting back, Mickey had him on his back on the narrow bed, throwing one leg over Ian to pin him in place. 

Ian managed to buck him off, throwing him to the floor, where he was faced with a choice. He could leave, run away, find a CO or a tech, or just hide in his own cell for a while. Or he could finish the fight, try to get to the truth. There might never be a better chance, so he grabbed Mickey by the shoulders of his jumpsuit and threw him against the wall of the cell. Instead of being shaken or stunned, Mickey practically bounced off the wall, using the momentum to propel him into Ian and both of their bodies back onto the bed. 

Once again, Mickey had the upper hand. Ian could tell that while Mickey was smaller and slighter, he was the better fighter. Mickey had Ian on his back, and managed to sit on Ian’s chest, holding him down, knees tucked under Ian’s armpits, tattooed fist raised and poised to strike.

Ian flinched and looked away, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the blow to fall. 

But it never came. All he could hear was Jonesy’s snoring, the racing of his own heart, and a light panting coming from Mickey’s mouth. Timidly, he opened his eyes and looked up. Mickey’s face didn’t look mad at all: his eyes were hooded and his pupils blown. A wild, absurd, ridiculous idea came into Ian’s head, and he glanced down at the crotch of Mickey’s jumpsuit to see if he was right.

Seemingly against his will, Mickey stared down too, at the evidence of his own arousal prominent through the fabric. There was a long pause, and then Ian looked at Mickey’s face again, at the blue that he’d longed to drown in for so many days. 

Mickey went from motionless to a whirlwind in a moment, leaning back and ripping open the buttons of his jumpsuit as he slid off Ian’s body. Ian half fell and half stood from the bed, undoing his own jumpsuit with trembling fingers. Mickey shrugged the suit off his shoulders, then, kneeling on the bed, leaned forward to help Ian undo his own recalcitrant snaps. Tops disposed of, they separated again for a moment, each man pushing down their boxers with the pants portion of the jumpsuit in angry shoves, clumsily toeing off soft-soled shoes and finally leaving two near-identical piles of clothing on the floor. 

Mickey knelt on the bed, eyes hungrily taking in Ian’s body, tracing down to his cock. Ian could swear he saw Mickey’s own cock pulse and release a bead of precum when he got an eyeful of Ian’s hard dick. He also saw an array of scars, cuts, maybe even an old bullet wound on MIckey’s thigh. Soon Mickey would feel him looking, and feel judged or- trapped? Ian didn’t want Mickey to feel - he wasn’t even sure. He wanted to show Mickey he was wanted, and there was one sure way he could think of.

He let his gaze track slowly up Mickey’s bare torso from that still half-hooded cock before meeting Mickey’s eyes. Mickey’s face was shuttered, suddenly looking at Ian like he was a threat, a bomb, a blow waiting to land. Ian waited. He was well aware that there was more on the line for Mickey; Ian was  _ mostly  _ sure Mickey wouldn’t kill him for this, but he could easily go back on the offensive, maybe leave Ian with more than just a black eye for his trouble. He swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth, hyper-aware of the way he flicked his tongue over his lower lip to catch an errant drop and of the way Mickey’s eyes tracked the movement. The man above him was biting his own lip, gnawing at it in quiet concentration. 

Mickey’s chin lifted, finally an invitation. Ian shifted, moving to the floor so he could drop to his knees as Mickey sat on the edge of the bed, pushing Mickey’s legs farther apart so he could settle between them. Mickey’s lips were parted slightly, those intense blue eyes careful and slow as he looked down at Ian, his hands still. Ian leaned forward, sliding his hands up Mickey’s thighs, the fine hair soft under his palms. The muscles of Mickey’s stomach twitched at the contact; he took a sharp breath.

Ian made a show of licking his lips, glancing up at Mickey’s face. When he spoke, his voice was already rough. “You can put your hands in my hair.”

Mickey tentatively slid his right hand, his **U-UP** hand, through Ian’s slightly shaggy red hair, resting his fingertips almost gently against Ian’s scalp. Ian wrapped his hand around Mickey’s cock, stroking it to hardness, and pulled back his foreskin before taking the leaking head into his mouth. He circled his tongue around the head, just a flick, really, across the frenulum, and Mickey’s hand tightened reflexively in his hair. When he glanced up he saw that Mickey’s eyes were closed, his breathing quick and shallow. He gave another quick swipe of his tongue, tasting a wash of bitterness, before sinking it deeper into his mouth, saliva slicking the hand he had curled around the base. He fell into a rhythm, hand and mouth working in tandem.

When Ian hollowed his cheeks, he was rewarded by a low, helpless moan from Mickey, the hand at the back of his head pressing him momentarily down onto Mickey’s cock before immediately pulling away. The noises the man made, they still surprised him: he had come to think of Mickey as an entirely silent being, but he wasn’t, not really. Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand and placed it firmly on the back of his head again, glancing up at Mickey’s face, the blush that spilled from his cheeks down his throat and the pale scarred expanse of his chest, to communicate his intent. Mickey’s eyes were luminous, his full lips slack.

Ian moved his spit-slick hand from the base of Mickey’s cock, splaying his fingers flat over Mickey’s stomach, taking him deeper into his mouth. His throat fluttered but he continued, tongue flat against the underside of Mickey’s cock, lips wet, eyes beginning to tear, until his nose was pressed to the dark hair at the base of Mickey’s cock. He pulled back slightly, Mickey’s hand loose on the back of his head, then pressed forward again, fucking Mickey’s cock into his throat. Mickey breathed a weird, punched-out noise.

Their harsh breaths and the wet sound of Ian’s mouth seemed loud in the room, the only other noise Jonesy’s snoring next door, and Ian lost himself in the unsteady rhythm. His knees ached, his throat was raw. Mickey thrust his hips up shallowly in counterpoint to Ian’s movements, halted only by Ian’s hand splayed over his stomach’s tense muscles, fingertips grazing the hard line of his hip. It was overwhelming; Ian’s eyelashes were wet with unshed tears and he was desperately hard.

Mickey breathed, a sound close to a whimper leaving his mouth. He pulled at Ian’s hair. Ian hollowed his cheeks, maintaining his rhythm and suction. Mickey came, face contorting for a moment, then relaxing with a look of bliss. Ian swallowed most of it but pulled off too soon, feeling a spurt of come on his already wet lips.

Mickey’s hand was still tight in Ian’s hair, the only thing grounding him as Ian pressed his face against Mickey’s thigh, stubble catching on the skin, mouth swollen and raw, and quickly reached down, palming himself. He jerked himself off fast and rough, not even bothering to put on a little show for Mickey. After a moment, Mickey slid off the bed to kneel beside him, smacking his hand away and taking over, pulling at Ian’s cock with a neat little twist at the end of every stroke. He wasn’t watching Ian’s face at all, too intent, seemingly mesmerized, by watching his  **FUCK** hand slide up and down Ian’s broad shaft. 

Even though Mickey had just come, Ian could practically see him thinking, see him considering, biting his lip in greed. Ian wanted to bite that lip, but he just leaned in, mouthing lightly at Mickey’s neck, wanting something in his mouth. As Mickey rolled his neck, giving Ian greater access, Ian sucked helplessly on it and came, orgasm washing over him in waves.

Ian’s breath evened out and they both shuffled around until they sat on the bed, Ian holding one hand awkwardly across his stomach, palm sticky with his own come. Mickey produced a wife-beater from somewhere and courteously handed it to Ian, who wiped his hand, and then regarded the dirty shirt and Mickey in turn. Mickey grimaced, gesturing to the floor around them, clearly telling Ian to drop it. Ian grinned.

“Thanks,” he said, sitting next to Mickey on the thin mattress, purposely ambiguous. Mickey’s eyebrows furrowed together as much as possible as he obviously tried to discern Ian’s meaning.

Finally, Mickey produced a slight tilt of the head, and casual thumbs up. That was all the gratitude, acknowledgement, recognition Ian expected. 

He thought about trying to kiss the other man, about taking that well-chewed lower lip between his own, running his tongue along the seam of his lips. No, he knew better. Mickey had let him be in charge so far, but he could feel that there was a line nearby, and if he crossed it… well, he would try not to, was all. 


	7. Crashed a plane with you/We fell into the blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don’t GET how i might wanna die cuz im a fag?

[ Float - Pink Laundry ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GROVp5oqpuY)

After his encounter with Mickey, Ian was pretty certain he was experiencing symptoms of mania again, despite the mood stabilizer and tranquilizers he was on. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Cynthia had started adding some strong benzodiazepines to his cocktail as well, given how heavily he had suddenly started sleeping. Not heavily enough to forestall the wet dreams, perhaps fueled by his ongoing furtive encounters with Mickey. 

As much as Ian’s moods shifted like quicksilver, Mickey also seemed to run hot and cold after their first time together. Sometimes he would give Ian a suggestive wink and they would find an unoccupied cell, like the first time he got to fuck Mickey. That had been in some new fish’s cell, barely decorated, and all items still neatly in their plastic wrap. 

And hadn’t  _ that  _ been an epiphany, Mickey’s body clinging sweetly to his. But other days, seemingly so focused on what was going on inside his own head, Mickey acted like Ian wasn’t there, wasn’t visible. And it fucked with Ian’s head, or at least his ego. Not his heart, surely he wasn’t stupid enough to develop feelings for a thug he technically met in prison. But still. It felt bad.

They never  _ talked _ . Well, Mickey still wasn’t able to talk at all, but they never had the deep conversations Ian craved. No discussion in writing, or even gestures, and all the mysteries of Mickey Milkovich, instead of becoming more clear, seemed to deepen and darken in Ian’s mind. Their relationship was mostly filled with fucking around, making fun of the other patients, and fucking.

Mickey’s ass had been a revelation to Ian, like finding the promised land. That first time, when Mickey dropped his jumpsuit and turned, putting his hands on the wall, glancing back over his shoulder, was jaw dropping to Ian. After they were done, as he was still barely done tucking his dick back in his clothing and Mickey was shuffling back into his jumpsuit, Ian had asked him if this had been a  [ booty call ](https://i.gifer.com/3vmv.gif) .

Mickey shrugged nonchalantly, but Ian could see  [ consideration ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/02c33011e368893dea6504501bb9107e/d05b9d285b7323b9-61/s640x960/aedbae18f503548959e48d5d58d3c4af4b770d2c.gif) cross his pale face. Per their plans to avoid detection, Mickey left the cell first, and Ian leaned against the wall, hands clasped behind his back, a huge smile on his face for the first time he could remember. 

\---

Other things about their interactions made Ian less happy. Mickey didn’t kiss. Ian knew that full well, but he kept pushing the boundary, craving deeper intimacy with the shorter man. A few weeks into their assignations, Ian had tried, mouth moving quite naturally from Mickey’s clavicle up to his neck above the dingy bandage, to his jaw, which he clearly appreciated, if the moans were anything to go by, then biting along the thin facial hair there until he was within a breath of Mickey’s lips. 

Suddenly, Ian found himself thrown violently away, flying halfway across the cell, nearly slipping on some patient-inmate’s dirty socks left in the middle of the floor. He got the memo, no kissing, holding his hands up as if he were under arrest as Mickey fumed, rubbing at his jaw and pacing back and forth. The message was clear, Mickey was upset. Ian’s pulse should have been racing: he should have been afraid. He felt like an empty bowl, completely clear. Had to be the meds, so he asked the question at the forefront of his mind.

“What the fuck, Mick? You didn’t have to practically hulk-smash me.”

Mickey looked at him, frustration on his face as he opened his mouth, made a croaky noise, grimaced, and shut it. 

Ian took a deep breath, trying to steady Mickey by proxy. “What’re you so afraid of, anyway?”

This time it was Mickey’s jaw that dropped, as he pointed around them, out the hall, to where they could both clearly hear a particularly disturbed patient crying for his mother.

“So? The fuck do they care what we do?”

Mickey broke the silence not with words but with violence, first  [ kicking ](https://media2.giphy.com/media/xT9IgC8I5FPrSWQ3uM/giphy.gif) the metal bed frame, then  [ punching ](https://em.wattpad.com/de0783a523bcf362050a043f1e12e519d0079997/687474703a2f2f33382e6d656469612e74756d626c722e636f6d2f61373731346631313231336335643131316233663661653363653565363933332f74756d626c725f6e303277397164416943317230726635716f315f3235302e676966?s=fit&h=360&w=360&q=80) a small mirror that hung on the wall. 

Afraid he’d hurt himself, or draw a tech’s attention, Ian rushed up, grabbing Mickey from behind and holding him, fighting against all his efforts to free himself until he sagged in defeat. Ian was left practically holding Mickey up by one arm clasped around his chest and another around his waist. He’d seen the bitter look on Mickey’s face in the mirror as he swung his fist, recognizing it for what it was. Ian knew self-hatred when he saw it.

Ian tugged him, manhandling him until they both sat on an unmade bed, sheets smelling of another man’s unpleasant body odor. Mickey’s shoulders were heaving, so Ian just waited, floating on a river of drugs that helped him maintain that perfect equanimity. But Mickey’s breathing didn’t even out, and soon it sounded like he was struggling to breath. Alarm bells began to ring in Ian’s mind, but before he could decide on what the right course of action was ( _ Mouth to mouth? Call a tech?)  _ Mickey’s hands rose and he began tearing at the nearly gray bandage that still wrapped his neck. His short nails dug and tore at the thin material until it finally ripped and he could fling it to the floor with a inhalation of relief. 

Trying to be subtle, Ian only turned his head a little, eyes studying the pale column of Mickey’s neck, at the angry brown loop that encircled the flesh, yellowed bruising still present. Mickey didn’t say anything, still couldn’t, but Ian knew by the tension in his body that he was letting Ian look his fill and draw his conclusions.

These were no finger marks, as Ian had once teased Mickey. This injury was obviously from a rope.

“You hung yourself,” Ian stated bluntly.

Mickey tipped his chin down in acknowledgement.

“Cause you’re gay?”

The eyebrows went up, and Mickey’s mouth folded. It wasn’t a denial though, not of the identity or the cause. 

“Ok, I still don’t get it.”

This time Mickey did turn, face full of  [ disbelief ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/8a/d8/1b/8ad81b977050248baccf8ef72e64ba31.gif) . He reached out, grabbing his stupid little white board from where he’d stashed it before their ill-fated hookup. Ian let him write furiously for a moment, not trying to read until he was done.

**_You don’t GET how i might wanna die cuz im a fag?_ **

“I mean, I wanted to die too, but that’s cause I’m mentally ill, not cause I’m gay. So no, I don’t get it. Explain it to me,” Ian insisted.

He thought Mickey might give up, walk off at that, but he just sat there and used the sweat-stained pillow case to wipe the dry erase board nominally clean. Again he wrote, but this time it took longer, and it was harder for Ian not to cheat and read over his shoulder.

**_my dad is a litural nazi hates queers_ **

**_raped my sister knocked her up had abortion and left_ **

**_caught me w a guy_ **

**_beat the shit out of both_ **

**_made a russin whore fuck me straight_ **

**_found out she was knocked up too_ **

**_couldnt_ **

The last word barely fit on the board, so Ian assumed there was more, but Mickey just shrugged again. 

“Fuck, Mick.” Ian didn’t know how to respond, what was right to say. “I’m sorry?”

That made Mickey’s lips quirk up in another of those almost-smiles, and he let out a huffing laugh. 

Ian thought, and had a follow up. “But how’d you end up in a prison psych ward? Why didn’t you just end up in a hospital?”

Mickey wiped the board again and wrote briefly.

**_was there 4 a week_ **

**_stupid bro called ambulance_ **

**_pile of guns in living room_ **

**_emts called cops_ **

Seeing Ian had finished reading, he made a broad  _ voila  _ gesture.

The feeling of numbness that had pervaded every area of Ian’s life for weeks began to drift away, leaving a deep well of darkness. At the bottom, he was picturing Mickey, alone in some squalid room, seeing no other way out, no one to turn to, nowhere to go.

“Wish I’d been there,” he whispered. “I coulda tried to help you, maybe.”

Mickey shook his head firmly. He mimicked the shove he’d given Ian moments earlier, adding a few faux-punches and a kick for good measure. Then he did the oddest thing. He reached up, and cupped Ian’s face, running the pad of one thumb across his lips. To his horror, Ian felt tears welling up in his eyes, and quickly rubbed at them with one sleeve, letting  [ his hand ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/610a4c7da94e77624a4b5570e559e6c2/tumblr_nm0vkfA4501tuehrqo1_500.gifv) trace Mickey’s where it still lay across his cheek. 

Mickey pulled him down, and they lay on the narrow bed together. They’d never lain together before, always needing to be up and back in sight after fucking. Ian shut his eyes, unwilling to be betrayed by the wetness, the tangible sign of his own weakness. But  [ the hand ](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcRpZzej3Ugj33js5ZE3MP45LGRFdpJm4GVbZg&usqp=CAU) , the  **FUCK** hand, that had tenderly held his face was back, stroking him lightly, giving comfort.

Ian wasn’t sure how long they lay like that. It could have been a few minutes or a few hours. Eventually they got up, went and sat in the dining area for dinner like it was any other day, but a profound sense of unreality still dogged Ian. He’d gotten answers, but at what cost?


	8. But that evil wind/Couldn't kill us again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When all you had was a hammer, every problem looked like a nail. When all you had was a great cock, it seemed like you could fuck away a lot of life’s issues. 

[ Strange Timez - Gorillaz (Feat. Robert Smith) ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bbA5p54Rw2M)

  
  


Suddenly on a Sunday, Ian had been there for seven weeks. He kept trying to talk to Mickey about it, about how soon he would be somewhere else, and how would they keep in touch? He’d suggested writing letters, since Mickey was patently not illiterate, but Mickey just shrugged him off, as always. Ian tried not to worry about it, tried not to think about the time, likely soon, when Mickey wouldn’t be just around a corner, or a hand’s reach away because that thought was intolerable to him. It made Ian’s skin crawl to think about, and he pushed the thought away firmly. 

Mickey could clearly see into Ian’s head, because after a few minutes of perseverating, he slid in next to Ian where he sat on the squeaky plastic couch and grabbed the book Ian had been holding from his hands. Casually, Mickey flipped through the pages, not seeming to read as much as peruse, when the COs suddenly walked through, announcing who had visitors.

Visitors were allowed in the unit, but the policies were slightly different than those of the prison at large. The psych unit allowed visitors once a week, after a two week blackout period, on Sundays, and visitors were allowed to meet with patient-inmates in a common area reserved for the occasion. But visitors still had to go through the pre-screening and pat downs prior to their visit, which deterred many of them. It was all well and good to want to support your loved one with a mental illness, accused of or convicted of a crime, until  _ you  _ were the one getting your ass groped by a CO to check for weapons and drugs.

Ian totally understood that, which was why he was surprised on that random Sunday morning when his name was on the visitation list, as was Mickey’s. He snuck a look at Mickey, whose face was rigid and gave nothing away. Ian was less interested in his own visitors than in who could possibly be visiting Mickey.

After the usual admonitions, the lucky few were sheparded to the visiting room, which was just another room like all the other common spaces, filled with small tables, plastic couches, and a vending machine that only took dimes. Before Ian could get a good look at Mickey’s visitor, he was attacked in a two-sided bear hug, Lip on one side, Liam on the other. He knew he was supposed to  _ want  _ to hug them back, so he did. After the superficially warm greeting, they found a small, wobbly table and sat.

Liam started the conversation by giving Ian the complete rundown of what everyone at home had been up to, how his classes were going, how long Frank had been gone before they found him squatting in a Northside treehouse that was nicer than their real house, and so forth. Lip watched pensively, adding a few details here and there. Ian could tell Lip was worried about him; for that matter, so was Liam.

Once the thread of Liam’s stories had begun to wear thin, it was Ian’s turn to take up the conversational yoke. He dug deep into his memory and told them about some of the funny things that had happened in groups, none of the heavy shit, and obviously nothing about Mickey, just a few stories so they’d know it was ok in here. 

At last, Lip stopped pursing his lips and began to get into the recitation, teasing Ian about his long hair and beard. Liam said he liked it, that he was thinking about letting his hair grow too, and both his brothers let out a laugh, not noticing that Ian’s laugh started a beat too late and was forced. Lip turned the subject to serious matters.

“They gettin you straightened out in here?”

Ian gave a neutral nod, “Sort of, I guess. They change my doses a lot, based on how I’m feeling. Some days, some weeks, really, aren’t good, still, but I think it’s a case of trial and error. The most shit they try, the closer we get to a med combo that’s right for me.”

“I hate you having to be a guinea pig,” Liam said softly.

“I know, me too, but that’s how this stuff works. They’ll get it right soon, and I can go to trial, and we can all move on. No matter what happens.” He and Lip locked eyes, both aware that there was little chance he’d be coming home after the trial. Best case was a light sentence with some time served for what he was doing now. 

“Ey, don’t worry, Liam. You can write him letters too, ya know?” Lip reached out, grasping Liam’s shoulder. “We’ll visit when we can, and when he can’t, you two can write to each other.”

“But it’s not the same,” the young boy nearly whined. “I miss you! No one else wants to check my homework, or get up early and make breakfast before school, or hang out with me. No tells stories like you do.”

Ian didn’t know what to say. He’d been sort of faking the entire visit and conversation, going through the expected motions and saying what he thought he was supposed to, but this entreaty from Liam had penetrated some of his fog. His brain scrambled to come up with a response- some way of comforting his brother, when a nearby commotion distracted everyone.

“... no son of mine!” A heavily-tattooed older man had stood, kicking his chair aside, across another rickety table from Mickey, who had his own deepest scowl in evidence as he wrote furiously on the whiteboard. The older man, rather than waiting for him to finish, ripped it from his hands and tossed it on the floor, stomping and smashing it with a boot-clad foot. Mickey’s fury was evident, but there was also a stark look of fear on his face as he too stood, in the process of getting a grip on the table, perhaps to flip it, when a loud alarm went off. 

The techs were looking disapprovingly at Mickey’s visitor. “Ok, folks, visiting time is cancelled! Milkovich, sit your ass down! Visitors you have 20 seconds to be out that door or we’re keepin’ you.”

With a minimal fist bump and wide, frightened eyes, both of Ian’s brothers were gone without even a cursory goodbye. Quickly, all of the patient-inmates were shuffled back to their cells, and the doors were locked, a rarity. Usually, due to state laws on least-restrictive environments for the mentally ill, lock-ins were only used in extreme, individual cases. Having a cell where the door was rarely locked had made Ian forget that he really was in prison. This was his life for the foreseeable future, locked in a cage. He laid on his bed at first, numbly staring at the ceiling.

\---

Soon, thoughts of Mickey overtook his anesthetization. He spent the remaining time pacing his cell, worried. The image of Liam’s sad face, and Lip’s concerned blue eyes swam in his mind, but overshadowing both of those images were the rage and the fear he’d seen on Mickey’s face. Some part of him knew that he shouldn’t put Mickey above his family, that it wasn’t the healthiest of choices, but he didn’t want to look at that too closely. He shushed his conscience by telling himself there was nothing he could to help Lip and Liam right now, but Mickey was right  _ there _ , just down the hallway, and he could try to help him at least.

After another hour had elapsed, their doors were unlocked, and lunch was served. Ian bypassed the men wandering to the dining area and wove through the stream of bodies, moving towards Mickey’s cell.

At the door, he stopped. Mickey was still in there, sitting on his bed, body practically vibrating. He had something curled in his fist, but Ian couldn’t see what it was. Mickey looked like he was about to explode or possibly implode. An explosion would be bad: he might attack Ian, or get sent to solitary, or tranqued up. An implosion might be worse, because he’d take out all his feelings on himself, on his own body. Ian couldn’t stand to see that, but he had to think fast.

“Hey, Mick,” he offered, in a low tone.

Mickey didn’t look up, but he didn’t wave Ian off, or do anything to indicate Ian was unwelcome, so he cautiously stepped into the small cell. What he  _ wanted  _ to do was sit next to Mickey, let him rest his dark head on his shoulder, pet and praise him, comfort him. He didn’t think Mickey would allow that kind of intimacy, not now, at least. 

So he did the only thing he could think of. He reached down, and palmed himself through his jumpsuit. “Got a problem here I thought you could help me take care of.”

Mickey did look up, at that. Not at Ian’s face, but his body, a slow, lingering glance. Ian stroked himself a little more, getting to half-chub status quickly.

The tattooed fist relaxed, and something small and shiny tumbled out to be lost amongst the bedsheets. Ian made a distant mental note to find it before one of them cut themselves by accident. 

He wasn’t necessarily  _ proud  _ of distracting Mickey from self-harm with sex, but he didn’t have a lot of options. He couldn’t just say ‘No time for a tantrum, gotta get on you,’ but he couldn’t stand by and do nothing either. Ian had been used for his body, had used his body, all his life. When all you had was a hammer, every problem looked like a nail. When all you had was a great cock, it seemed like you could fuck away a lot of life’s issues. 

Mickey sucked his bottom lip, alert and watching as Ian’s dick sprang free, heavy with blood and pointed right at him.

“I intend to overwhelm you with my sexual prowess,” Ian rumbled with a smirk, making Mickey huff in disbelief as he watched Ian step out of his jumpsuit. He crawled onto the bed, straddling Mickey’s legs and hunching low like a hungry panther. “I am going to tease you until you’re breathless,” he murmured, taking Mickey’s unresisting wrists and pressing them into the mattress, leaning close so his breath brushed Mickey’s ear, “and make you come so fucking hard you wanna scream.”

“Sound good?” he asked roughly, nuzzling into Mickey’s neck.

Mickey growled, squirming beneath him.

Lowering his hips, Ian ground against Mickey’s clothed pelvis, two circular motions that made Mickey jerk as if electrocuted, then swiftly slid down his torso as his fingers unbuttoned and unzipped. Mickey buried his hands in Ian’s hair, still almost too short to grip properly, as he lifted his hips, allowing Ian to quickly unbutton and discard his stupid jumpsuit as well.

From the foot of the bed, Ian glanced up at him beneath lowered eyelashes, trying to gauge Mickey’s level of focus on him. Judging he needed more, he kissed the top of his right foot, then his left ankle, skimming the hair of his right shin, then licking his left knee. Every scar he came to he lipped at, pressing his mouth to them in a silent apology. He nibbled gently along his right thigh, then pressed a kiss to his left hip, and by the time he pressed his nose to the base of his cock, Mickey was gripping the sheets and groaning through a clenched jaw, making a ‘get on with it’ motion with one hand.

Ian exhaled hotly against the head of his cock before sticking his tongue out for a prissy little taste. Mickey made a growly, grumbling noise, and swatted at Ian’s head, which just made him laugh. Deciding to keep going, Ian sucked the head into his mouth, humming and swirling his tongue around like he was licking a spoon clean. “Getting there,” he murmured when he pulled off.

Apparently unable to help himself, Mickey thrust up, following Ian’s mouth, but was only granted soft, close-mouthed kisses down his shaft before Ian sucked his right ball into his mouth.

“Turn over,” Ian ordered, swatting his hip.

Taking a few seconds to gather himself, Mickey twisted his torso before flopping onto his stomach, burying his hot face in his crossed arms and pillow. Ian spread his cheeks with one hand before letting them spring closed a few times, enjoying the view, letting Mickey’s world narrow down to his ass, and what Ian planned to do to it. When he judged Mickey had waited long enough, he started at the dimples on his back, licking down to Mickey’s ass, mouthing at it gently. 

The shamefully thin pillow only partly muffled the noises that escaped Mickey’s throat, increasingly desperate as Ian’s tongue wriggled closer and closer to his center. Mickey spread his legs, and Ian readjusted himself so he was settled in the vee of Mickey’s thighs, spreading the offered cheeks and getting right to the point.

Twisting his head to the side, Mickey bit his own arm as Ian’s tongue circled his rim, stroking the sensitive muscle until it quivered and relaxed, eager for more. For several long minutes Ian continued to lap over his hole, his fingers massaging circles, certain Mickey would have bruises on his arm from where his teeth dug in.

Listening to the pace of those grunts and whimpers increase, Ian obeyed the wordless command, stiffening and extending his tongue until it entered Mickey’s body. Mickey hissed, long and sibilant, arching up, trying to press harder against Ian’s mouth.

Ian’s fingers bit into his hips to restrain him, Ian’s face pressed unashamedly against his ass as his tongue thrust forcefully.

When a whine tore itself from Mickey’s throat, Ian patted his hip and held out a hand, his tongue continuing its motions. He patted Mickey’s hip again, then held out his hand with wriggling fingers, until Mickey realized what he wanted. He threw out a limp arm to reach under the mattress until he found the packet of mayonnaise, which he thrust into Ian’s waiting hand. With a pleased hum meant to vibrate throughout Mickey’s pelvis, Ian bit open the packet, spitting the piece on the floor, and replaced his tongue with his first two fingers.

Mickey groaned, trying to maneuver to his hands and knees, but Ian’s free hand pressed between his shoulder blades, pushing him down again.

“Uh-uh, Mick,” he scolded, twisting his fingers. “Stay down. Hands where I can see them.”

Ian knew he’d found Mickey’s sweet spot when a guttural cry got caught in the back of the man’s throat, trailing off into panting when Ian didn’t let up, maintaining a gentle, circular massage.

Burying his hands in his own hair, Mickey sucked in great lungfuls of air, sweat beading along his spine and in his armpits.

Ian smoothed his hand up Mickey’s sweaty back. He gripped a shoulder and tugged, urging Mickey to push himself up until his back was pressed to Ian’s front, his head tilted back to rest on Ian’s shoulder. With one hand still inside him, Ian ran his free hand all over Mickey’s bare torso and chest, tweaking nipples and stroking the trail of hair under his belly button while he mouthed at Mickey’s neck.

With so many points of stimulation, Mickey quickly lost focus on where Ian’s mouth was, breaths sawing in and out of his lungs as Ian worked his prostate, sucked on the skin below his ear, scratched at his pubic hair. His cock looked like it was throbbing with each heartbeat, nearly purple with arousal and positively dripping, the foreskin fully retracted and his balls drawn tight up against his body. When Ian tugged on his balls and only got a desperate whine in response, he knew he’d teased long enough.

Spreading his legs as far as the tendons in his hips allowed, Mickey let his head hang as he panted, so worked up that the penetration of Ian’s cock was nearly effortless, the deliciously hot, channel swallowing his cock up until they were pressed together as closely as two people could be. Ian’s groan of pleasure was met by Mickey’s deep sigh of relief, the dark-haired man’s hips thrusting minutely while Ian tried to compose himself.

“So good,” Ian huffed, wrapping both arms around Mickey’s chest. He pulled his hips back a bit before thrusting forward again, as if not being entirely inside was unbearable. “So fucking good.”

Mickey nodded in agreement, his fingers clenching as Ian started up a slow rhythm, his hips barely pulling away before nudging forwards again. One hand slithered down to Mickey’s hip, tilting his pelvis by increments until the next thrust forced a wheezing cry from Mickey’s lips.

“God, that’s it,” Ian grunted, holding Mickey’s hip tightly and increasing the pressure, if not the speed, of his thrusts.

The sounds Mickey was making were quiet but intense, and Ian was only encouraged, fucking him hard and fast now, the bedsprings creaking. The only reason he wasn’t worried about the noises or being caught was that it was a mealtime, and everyone would be together: no one would be looking for two wayward patients. Who’d wanna miss yet another delectable meal of carbs and mush?

Mickey flexed, rocking back to him, and Ian made a strangled sound, sliding his hand down Mickey’s belly to fist his cock, not stroking, simply letting the movement of their fucking push Mickey’s dick in and out of the grip of his hand.

Mickey came suddenly with a gurgling noise like a wave breaking on the shore, not loud but very fierce. Still pressed up behind him, Ian was holding up most of his weight with his arms, and Mickey braced himself as he slumped, Ian’s thrusts quickening before he too came with a groan. 

“You alright?” Ian murmured, kissing the back of his neck and rubbing his back soothingly. “That was pretty intense.”

Mickey turned his head, eyes bright blue, face just inches from Ian’s. In a quick, abrupt motion, he leaned forward, pressing their lips together for just a moment before pulling back, watching for Ian’s reaction.

Ian blinked at him, nearly cross-eyed from how close their faces were, a grin spreading. Slowly, letting Mickey have every chance to pull away, he leaned in and returned the kiss, close-mouthed but warm.

\---

He realized that night, lying in his own cell, that the emptiness that had plagued him was gone, the seemingly unfillable void now bursting with feelings of pride, fulfillment, desire, caring.  _ Mickey _ . The wound in his soul was filled, and everything was Mickey. 


	9. I never/ live my life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gallagher, you have, like, zero chill, man.

[ Head up High - Fitz and the Tantrums ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0En6XOqXTMY)

They did more than furtively fuck on the ward. There were too many people, too few places and opportunities to hide, so they ended up just spending a lot of time goofing around together. 

Aside from Liam, and maybe Lip, Ian hadn’t had any true friends in years. His acolytes had looked up to him too much, put him on a pedestal that made it impossible to meet as equals. Milkovich would have cheerfully knocked him off any pedestal with one sardonic lift on an eyebrow.

There were so many rules on the unit, and every week Ian found Mickey breaking a new one. Or bending it, at least. Like the no shoelaces rule. They both tacitly understood why shoelaces were verboten there, too much risk of someone using them for self-harm. But one morning, Mickey showed up with a new whiteboard (the one his father had smashed was an unusable wreck), and a sharp new dry-erase marker, tied to it with a  _ shoelace _ . Ian couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten the lace: none of the men had any shoes to pilfer it from, they all went around in the soft-soled velcro shoes or non-slip socks provided for them. 

The no-laces rules extended to the strings in hoodies too, but again, Mickey just blew past that rule, too. They were allowed to wear some home clothing over their jumpsuits, and Mickey often added a myriad of layers. 

He had this weird,  [ tan, zip-up hoodie ](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/50/54/59/505459f6f6a88557e22b81e439b3a374.jpg) with some white anime print on one side. The hood, which he never used, was usually hidden under a plaid scarf he liked, now that the bandages around his neck were gone, (never replaced after his fit of angry ripping) possibly self conscious about the healing marks and scars there. But the scarf seemed to have a second use - it covered up the illicit hood strings he wasn’t supposed to have. 

When Ian had been checked in, all his clothing had been inspected and the strings removed. His favorite pair of  [ grey running shorts ](https://dlisted.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/wenn21541233.jpg) were now unwearable, with no string at the waist to tie to keep them in place; they just slid down his hips. 

At the moment, the two men were sitting across from each other in the common area, playing another round of their game of ultimate Uno. The rules were like regular Uno, only there was a running tally of who had won the most rounds. Mickey had a weird competitive streak and mean poker face, while Ian had the advantage of luck and the ability to distract Mickey simply by man-spreading his thighs. Generally Mickey was ahead in rounds, while Ian was close at his heels. It was just a dumb game, but it kept their hands busy during the long boring hours between groups, meals, and fucking. 

A newer patient-inmate had been watching them from afar, and took the opportunity as Ian was shuffling the cards for the next hand, to sit directly next to Mickey. The new man, Watson, was tall and thickly built, with a thinning, wispy blond combover. He wasn’t  [ directly in Mickey’s bubble ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/17ce1b467ba942fd22855e8d3714c032/tumblr_nkkg2h9OmL1shsenao7_250.gifv) of personal space, but there were so many open seats that his choice seemed peculiar, if not downright predatory. His overt, creepy stare at the side of Mickey’s face made it worse. Ian could see Mickey’s tension ratcheting up, and knew he needed to intercede before Mickey’s hairy eyeball turned into Mickey’s tattooed fist.

“Hey, Watson, back off, maybe, ok?”

Watson didn’t blink, or move, just kept gazing at the side of Mickey’s head, where a flush had now crept up, likely one born of anger.

Ian continued, voice becoming strident, “There’s a seat right there, man, just move your ass.”

Slowly, Watson lumbered to his feet and moved to the seat Ian had indicated, which was next to him on one of the squeaky plastic couches.

The man’s attention had shifted from his study of Mickey to close observation of Ian. Ian wasn’t unfamiliar with being stared at, but usually it was lust, or hate. He couldn’t quite pin down what Watson wanted or was looking for, only that Ian was disinclined to provide it.

But at the least the guy had followed directions. 

Mickey grunted, lifting his chin in Watson’s direction. Again, with only a quick movement he was able to communicate whole paragraphs.

_ This guy botherin’ you? You want me to do something about him? _

Or at least that’s what Ian believed he meant. It could easily have been something entirely different, like

_ Hey, why’d you run off my new boyfriend?  _

It was Ian’s turn to make a grumbling noise. Though the cause was his own negative thoughts, Watson took it as another directive, and stood, shambling to a seat further away, attention now caught on the Roadrunner cartoon playing on the TV. 

Mickey was staring down at the empty table, another of those little grins on his face.

“What?”

Obviously Mickey didn’t say anything, but he did make eye-contact, shaking his head a little. 

_ Gallagher, you have, like, zero chill, man. _

Ian could practically hear Mickey’s words in his head, except for the minor detail that he had no idea what the guy’s voice actually sounded like.

\---

Other days, the ongoing Uno tournament paled, and they’d dick around with Mickey’s whiteboard, having half-assed conversations that were partially written, partially mimed, and all full of expletives. They talked about where they grew up, their siblings and families, though Mickey never mentioned his father, and only spoke of his mother as a figure from his childhood. 

“Why doesn’t anyone else from your family ever visit you?”

Mickey frowned, scrawling quickly. 

**_locked up or dont care_ **

“All of them? Don’t you have like 20 brothers and cousins?”

**_only one worth a fuck is mandy and shes gone_ **

Right. The sister who’d been assaulted by their father, had an abortion, and fled.

“You don’t have any way of contacting her?”

Mickey shrugged impatiently, rubbing his words off the board with his sleeve. Instead of writing out a reply, he started drawing a hangman game. They’d played this a few times before, with Mickey’s word choices always a jab at Ian, and Ian’s usually a flirtation of some sort. 

One word, ten letters.

Ian decided to play along, let Mickey change the subject yet again.

“E.” 

There was one E, the fourth letter of the word.

_ _ _ E _ _ _ _ _ _

“R” 

There were two R’s, the third and sixth letters.

_ _ R E _ R _ _ _ _

The game went on, with Ian getting frustrated and stumped until he randomly guessed F, seeing the word emerge at last.

“Dude, no way, ‘fire crotch’ is two words, not one!”

Another of those insouciant shrugs, and Mickey swiped the board clean.

**_whadya want for winning?_ **

Those blue eyes were staring at him, anything but innocence reflected. There was heat, and fun. 

Ian kept his voice low, but the tone was unmistakably urgent. “Will you suck my dick right now?”

Mickey’s face contracted, and he made a fist, pulling it back and forth at his crotch, a clear communication of ‘ [ _ fuck off _ ](https://twitter.com/easychz/status/1287775201732767745) .’

Ian just raised his eyebrows and leaned back on the couch, arms outstretched, hoping Mickey might reconsider, carefully keeping his eyes trained on the TV off to the side where another terrible home reconstruction show was on.

He almost missed the little nod from Mickey, more of a side to side movement than up and down, but it was acquiescence. Immediately he pinned Mickey with a look, pleased his little ruse had worked out. If Mickey had really been offended, or wanted to refuse, he would have left, walked off, maybe. But once he stayed put, Ian knew he just had to get past the first wall of automatic defences and ...

“Got something to say there, Mick?”

Mickey half-smiled, shaking his head for real this time.

_ Don’t make me say it, asswipe. _

With that little head tilt, Mickey stood and quickly sauntered towards the cells, Ian close at his heels, crowding up behind him with anticipation.

Mickey threw him a nearly-fond look over his shoulder that Ian could read as clear as day.

_ Zero fuckin chill, man. _

\---

One morning, Ian woke up a little later than usual. The alarm had gone off, a huge buzzer that woke everyone in the joint, and he’d heard it, but he hadn’t been ready to leave his pleasant dream yet. He and Mickey had been lying in a big field, at night, staring up at- 

It was gone. He sat up, and knew there was a problem.

He was in his own cell, which was correct, but something still felt  _ off _ . He quickly shucked off his tee and boxers for a clean set, dumping the dirty clothes into the basket by the door, and pulled his jumpsuit on, leaving the snaps open. He debated in the bathroom while he pissed, brush his teeth or no? Run the comb through his hair or skip it?

He decided yes for the teeth ( _ in case of stealthy kisses _ ) and no for the comb, because Mickey seemed to enjoy running those marked fingers through his curls, pretending to pat it into place but really messing it up further. A quick scrub of his teeth and he was out, walking in great loping strides down the hall to the dining area, eyes wide and looking for a dark head of hair.

Mickey wasn’t at breakfast. Ian shrugged it off, figuring he’d been pulled for an appointment, maybe with Cynthia or even with his lawyer. He sat morosely in the first group of the day, Coping Skills, while the facilitator droned on, basically lecturing the men on how, if they would just stop and breathe, they wouldn’t have those pesky feelings of anger, loneliness, or hopelessness. It was all bullshit, and going so long with seeing Mickey had Ian on edge. Any appointment he was at should be long done by now. 

As soon as the group let out, the men spilled into the common area for free time, and Ian ducked down the hallway to check Mickey’s cell. 

It was empty. The walls, formerly covered with drawings, were bare. The floor where Mickey kept his piles of clean and dirty laundry, was vacant. The bed where they had lain together was, for the first time ever, neatly made, the corners tucked in and the sheets fresh.

The evidence was clear and overwhelming, but Ian refused to look at what all the clues pointed to. Instead, he stormed over to the main desk, behind which various techs sat, ostensibly using the computers but really playing on their cell phones and gossiping.

“Where’s Mickey?”

A bored tech looked up at him and snapped her gum wearily. “Who?”

“Milkovich. He’s not in his cell, and he wasn’t at breakfast or in group.”

“Did you check the visiting room,” she drawled with no enthusiasm.

Ian bit his tongue, trying to contain his anger. “No, I didn’t look there, cause it’s fuckin  _ locked  _ on non-visiting days.”

“Don’t get snippy with me cause you can’t find your little friend!”

“Look, I just wanna know if he’s ok, can’t you just-” he held his hands up and wiggled his fingers, “-you know, look him up in the computer?”

“Fine.” Resigned, she queried him once or twice on the spelling, and then peered closely at the screen. “Oh.”

“Oh? What oh?” Ian was nearly frantic, rubbing his damp palms back and forth across his thighs.

“Says here he had court today, official sentencing, then transfer to the main unit.”

“Court? Sentencing- no, that’s not right. He’s not fixed yet, he’s still-”

“That’s what it says here, hun.” Her voice was now honeyed-sweet, eyes soft like she was telling a little kid their favorite toy had been destroyed.

He turned his back on her, and walked down to Mickey’s cell again. It was still empty, looking like no one had ever been there, anonymous. The bed didn’t even smell like Mickey anymore. Ian trudged to his own cell, the weight of the change settling on his shoulders like a Sisyphean boulder.

Sitting on the edge of his own bed, he looked around at the familiar mess. One day soon, that would be him. All his things would vanish, and some new guy would sleep here, dream here. Every day Ian had more ability to at least mask his symptoms, and that was all anyone in here really wanted. Not healing, but a semblance of wellness.

The enormity of the loss began to dawn on Ian, and he felt his lip quivering, a big glob of snot working its way out of his nose. He reached into his dirty laundry basket to grab something to wipe his face with, and stopped mid grasp.

Instead of feeling cotton and polyester, his hand had found a sheet of paper. He pulled it out, heedless of the laundry that spilled. 

It was a  [ pencil drawing of a beach ](https://c8.alamy.com/comp/S1NE54/two-beach-chairs-and-an-umbrella-in-black-and-white-S1NE54.jpg) . There were two wooden lounge chairs, with a tall umbrella between them. The sun was setting, and even though it was only in black and white pencil, the artist had managed to capture the depth of the clouds and textures of the sand.

Not the artist.  _ Mickey _ . Mickey had drawn this. And Mickey had left it for him to find. He turned it over, hoping to find some message, a phone number, anything. But there was nothing except a pair of very small, very sharp, initials in a familiar hand.

_ M.M.  _

Mickey had made the M’s look somehow like devil’s horns, and through the tears that Ian hadn’t noticed beginning to fall, he grinned. He laid back on his bed, pressing the drawing to his chest. The tears switched course, running down the sides of his face, pooling wetly in his ears. He didn’t care.

Ian closed his eyes, and tried to imagine the sound of waves.

\----

Soon it was his turn to go to court and face sentencing.


	10. Till I die/Live my life/I never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Holy fuck…” he whispered, mostly to himself. 

[ No Other Way - SHAED ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eyYPZIRdGkU)

After a quick hug from his siblings in the courtroom, Ian was shackled and put into a van. The drive to the prison was a short one, and he looked out the tinted windows at the trees. When had spring arrived? 

Thankfully he was able to skip the whole strip-cough deal this time, because he was technically just a transfer from within the system. His belongings would follow him in a few days, they assured him, which meant maybe they’d never show up at all. There wasn’t much he wanted to keep, but the drawing from Mickey, the one of the beach. He wished he had that. 

Two years. No time served, but still. 24 months wasn’t as bad as it could have been, he knew. He followed a nameless CO through the crowded common areas, up stairs, and down a corridor of cells. Men stared, and he thought he heard whispers, but that could have just been the paranoia. It was so loud here, there were men’s voices in every direction, talking in every language, cursing and laughing and crying, all at once. He kept his eyes open, and followed the CO.

The cell was small, smaller than the psych cell. Bunk beds, a toilet with a sink as a tank, and a door that slammed shut behind him with an ominous clank. 

He breathed, trying to stay present. What were his senses telling him? That was one thing Cynthia had actually taught him to cope with anxiety. He could hear men, everywhere. There was banging, distantly. He could smell urine and sweat. He could taste, well, nothing. His new jumpsuit felt stiffer than the last one, scratchier fabric.

It helped, a little at least. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t feel quite so claustrophobic. He took the two steps to cross the cell, putting his small pile of sheets on the top bunk, and rested his face on his arm, just wanting not to see or be seen for a moment.

There was a mechanical sound, and the door behind him slid open. He shut his eyes for a moment, but the sounds of the open area behind him were louder: it was real. Someone was already wanting to fuck with him. He squared his shoulders, and set his jaw, hearing the door slam shut once again. Great, now he was alone with someone, or more than one someone, and maybe they wanted to hurt him or- he turned.

The door was shut, and Mickey stood in front of it, not really smiling, but with soft eyes. 

This wasn’t real. That was his first overwhelming thought. Ian didn’t smile, didn’t do more than drop his mouth a little and pant, confused and desperate. Had he truly lost it, then? Was his mind so broken that he was seeing Mickey here?

Then it got weird. Weirder.

Mickey  _ spoke _ .

“I rolled on my dad, and in exchange, guess who gets to pick where he gets locked up.”

Ian stared. The voice was nothing like he’d imagined, but it was so utterly  _ Mickey  _ that, once having heard it, he couldn’t begin to conceptualize Mickey speaking in any other tone or cadence. That, more than anything, made Ian suspect this might be real. The scar around his neck was still there, nearly the same red it had been two weeks ago when Ian had last seen him in the psych unit. 

“Holy fuck…” he whispered, mostly to himself. 

“Oh, hey,” Mickey pointed to the bunk beds, “I got bottom.” He looked directly at Ian, face serious at first. “So, you’re on top.” Ian couldn’t see his face as he ducked to lay on the bed, but he could hear the cocky-ass grin at his own dumb joke. 

Ian wanted to shout, to laugh, to kiss him, but he stood a moment longer. He curled his fingers into his palm, letting the nails dig in, letting the pain echo up his arm. This was real. This wasn’t a symptom of his diseased brain, finding a new way to cope with trauma. Mickey was here and he was-

-waiting for Ian, lying on the lower bunk, legs outstretched, hands pillowed behind his head, licking his lip as a little grin grew across his face.

One last time, Ian glanced around, checking to see if there were any other delusions lurking, demons or boogymen or cameras in the corners of the ceiling. All clear. Mickey was here.

In one movement, he slid atop Mickey, legs split around those hips in a mimicry of their first time together. One hand slid up of its own accord, cupping Mickey’s cheek. Slowly, he leaned in, still thinking this could all evaporate like fog as soon he breathed too hard. 

Mickey’s smile was relaxed, patient, lashes lowered as he stared at Ian’s mouth. As Ian lowered himself to kiss Mickey, Mickey met him halfway, mouth opening sweetly, so sweetly. He’d missed this man, and he drank him in, let himself be sipped and tasted until they were both sated, kiss-drunk and giggly. It was still mid-morning, otherwise Ian would have done more than rut gently against Mickey’s thigh a few times. But he knew they had time. For once, they had a little time. 

\---

"Lights out!"

They'd been waiting for it all day, but they both still startled at the shout and subsequent rattle as each bank of lights flicked off, plunging them into the twilight gray of night in prison.

Grinning, Mickey leaned up to nip at Ian's chin. Mickey was rarely this playful, and Ian couldn’t really be mad at him, at their reunion, but he narrowed his eyes and growled anyway. Mickey just laughed and licked the spot he'd nipped.

"You've been a pain in my ass all day," Ian said.

"Just today, firecrotch?" Mickey teased, then leaned up to give him a brief kiss before falling back on the bed with a regretful sigh. He couldn’t get enough of hearing Mickey speak, even if all he got were weird, silly nicknames. He’d listen to Mickey read the phonebook, if meant he could listen to that voice for as long as possible.

Ian leaned down to give Mickey the kiss he wanted, long and deep and lush. Mickey was sighing for a different reason by the time Ian left Mickey's mouth to nuzzle his way down to the hollow of Mickey's throat.

Mickey had always smelled good, but now especially so after weeks apart from Ian. Leaving the enticing scent of Mickey's throat, Ian brushed his face back and forth across Mickey's chest, enjoying the drag of cotton across his court-shaved cheeks. The shirt was soft with wear and smelled of Mickey and the prison’s detergent. He could stay there all night, rubbing himself all over Mickey's body, breathing him in, cataloging every musky, salty, and sweet part of him.

He had plans, though, plans that didn’t involve clothing in any way. Pushing his hands under the hem of Mickey's t-shirt, Ian smoothed his palms up Mickey's chest, dragging the t-shirt up, up, until it was over Mickey's head. He did the same thing with the boxers, except his hands smoothed down Mickey's legs, the boxers ending up on the floor.

The lights were out, but it was still early. Most of the other prisoners were awake, and the COs would start their first patrol of the night in an hour. Ian didn’t care who watched ( _ was that passion or lack of attention to consequences? _ ), but he knew Mickey wouldn’t like it, still needing privacy from his father’s minions in a place where true secrets were impossible.

Ian couldn’t help but be captivated seeing Mickey like this, teeth gleaming in a mischievous smile, his eyes bright in the dimness. He undulated his hips, hard cock an invitation to touch. So Ian did, curling his fingers around Mickey's thick, uncut cock, giving him a loose grip to push into, greedy for it.

Ian watched, just as needy, as Mickey shamelessly worked his hips. Screw the consequences, he was going to take his time, move things beyond hands and mouths and rubbing off. Mickey pouted when Ian moved his hand away from Mickey's cock. This playfulness, the wantonness, was completely irresistible, a whole new side to the man he was- that was a thought for later, interrupted by a demand from Mickey.

"Don't fuckin’ tease," he gasped, bringing his knee up to nudge Ian in the ribs.

"Asshole," Ian said , pushing Mickey's knee down, spreading himself over Mickey, pressing his body into the mattress. The curse and hiss of Mickey's breath were swallowed in a kiss.

He kept Mickey's mouth occupied, one slow, deep kiss blending into another, like they had all the time in the world. Mickey did nothing to rush them, taking every kiss and giving it back until Ian had to draw away to catch his breath, to gather his focus. Mickey, determined to distract him, watching Ian's face intently, rolled his hips up, their cocks rubbing against each other’s through the thin barrier of Ian's boxers.

Growling, Ian shoved and kicked at his boxers while Mickey laughed, so open and happy that Ian wanted to bury himself in Mickey, crawl inside all that pale, scarred skin and never come out again. He took another second to skim out of his t-shirt and toss it into the shadows before falling onto Mickey, body to body with nothing between them.

He went a little crazy then, with the kisses, the biting and licking at Mickey's shoulders, running his hands over Mickey's belly and chest, tracing old scars reverently. When Mickey spread his legs, cradling Ian's hips between his thighs, positioning himself perfectly for rubbing off, Ian drew back, panting, as Mickey watched quizzically, his calves restlessly rubbing Ian's thighs.

Arousal was making Mickey a bit pushier than their previous encounters, where he would egg Ian to get on him, then take what he was given at whatever pace Ian picked out. But Ian didn’t mind this version of Mickey, where he demanded what he wanted, showing Ian that the overwhelming craving for fucking wasn’t just one-sided. Taking his time was one thing, lingering long enough for the COs to come banging on the glass would be another. Smiling fondly, Ian kissed the tip of Mickey's nose, making him grumble for avoiding his lips.

Ian's hand moved to the edge of the mattress to locate the small bottle of hand lotion he'd hidden there for his own intended nightly self-abuse, never imagining the person he fantasized about ( _ and cried over _ ) would show up out of the blue. To distract Mickey, he began to nuzzle his way down Mickey's chest, pausing to lick at the tight nipples. Mickey arched up, wanting more, but settled back with a disappointed sigh when Ian kept working his way down.

One of the first things Ian had found out about Mickey's preferences was that his nipples were highly sensitive. Ian licked and mouthed at Mickey's treasure trail, while one hand plucked at and played with his nipples, each in turn, causing shudders to spread through Mickey's body. Ian's hand finally found the bottle of lotion and he pulled it out from under the mattress.

Mickey smelled fucking fantastic. Ian couldn’t help but bury his nose in the crease of Mickey's thigh before smoothing a hand along Mickey's leg, guiding his knee toward his chest. Mickey lifted his other leg without any direction from Ian. Leaning back, Ian had to look at Mickey, hands above his head, knees drawn up and spread wide, cock hard and leaking.

Mickey was completely still under his gaze, laid out like an offering, his vulnerability a gift. It went right to Ian's head, and with a groan he bent over Mickey, kissing the insides of his thighs, licking the tender skin of his balls, mouthing his ass.

Ian could hear Mickey's harsh, aroused breathing. Jesus, he wanted to make Mickey scream loud enough to bring the COs running. Dropping the bottle of lotion on the bed, Ian used both hands to spread Mickey's cheeks. Mickey didn’t have time to protest because Ian licked a wet path from tailbone to balls. Mickey gasped and brought a foot down on Ian's shoulder, toes digging into his skin.

"Fuck, Gallagher!" It was more of a gasp than a scream, but satisfying just the same. Just hearing that voice was still so new and arousing to Ian, like he’d drawn some new level of incitement from the man, pulled his voice out of him through sheer horniness.

Licking the skin under Mickey's balls, Ian worked his way down. Mickey squirmed at the first touch of Ian's tongue to his hole, biting out his wonderment, “Still can’t believe you like doin that shit.”

Hell, yes, he liked doing  _ that _ . There wasn't a single inch of Mickey's body Ian wasn't planning to claim. Ian laughed, and it must have been doing something really good to Mickey because his foot curled around Ian's shoulder, almost as if he was trying to pull him in closer. Trying not to smile, Ian pressed his mouth to Mickey's opening and hummed, alternating humming and licking, making Mickey squirm and buck uncontrollably. Things got a little wild, and Ian had to grip Mickey's hips and push them down to the mattress. He finally quit teasing and got down to the business of working Mickey open with his tongue.

Even after the teasing, Mickey was damn tight. Ian was expecting the resistance, and he knew it wasn’t intentional. The paranoid clock in his head was ticking down, and Ian had no choice but to be a little pushy. Some other night, Ian would take his time, eat Mickey out until he came just from that, but tonight he had to get Mickey relaxed and ready for what was coming next.

Pressing his lips against Mickey's hole, Ian began working his tongue around the tight muscle. He could feel Mickey trying to relax, let him in. He rewarded Mickey by breaching him with his tongue, going deep.

"Holy fuck!" Mickey gasped.

Ian used more force to get his tongue deeper inside, pressing his face hard enough against Mickey's body that he almost couldn’t breathe. Groping around on the bed, he finally grabbed the bottle of hand lotion. He pulled back to draw air, then pressed back in, finally feeling Mickey loosening up.

Mickey was too focused on what Ian was doing to him to hear the cap of the lotion bottle open with a sharp click. He was muttering, too quietly for Ian to catch more than his name; nonetheless, he gave Mickey a few extra licks for that. Just the sound of Mickey’s voice, rough from disuse and passion alike did something extra to Ian, increasing the heat and urgency he felt.

They were running out of time. Ian poured some lotion onto his fingers, not giving a damn that some was getting on the sheets. With one last sucking kiss, Ian drew back and pushed the tip of a finger inside, Mickey going tense all over.

"Gallagher?"

"Yeah?"

He listened to Mickey breathe for several long moments. After a while, Mickey’s whole body seemed to relax. "Okay," he murmured. "Fuck, ok..."

It felt like something had broken open inside Ian’s chest, the tenderness almost unbearable. If they did nothing else, he would feel fulfillment from just this, get off on it in his mind for months, maybe the rest of his life. As Ian eased his finger all the way in, he could feel Mickey's body become more receptive, opening for him.

Ian sat up on his heels so he could look at Mickey, and so Mickey could see him. Fiercely, he needed Mickey to know it was  _ Ian  _ touching him, making him feel good. He captured Mickey's blue eyes, wanting everything he was feeling to show, because Mickey deserved that much from him as he carefully moved his finger in and out of the tight heat of Mickey's body. He wanted to fuck Mickey face to face for the first time, and Mickey was going to let him, he could already tell.

Everything around Ian melted away, focused, maybe even hyper-fixated, on the man spread out before like him a feast. It was just the two of them, the connection building between them. Nothing was going to disturb them, not now when Ian was so close to where he needed to be, where he’d been dreaming of every day since Mickey’s abrupt disappearance. 

Ian added more lotion, then another finger, carefully stretching Mickey, stroking carefully across his prostate, until he was shaking and moaning, unable to wait any longer. Ian’s own hands were shaking a little as he poured more lotion into his hand and started slicking up the length of his cock, barely able to touch himself, so close to losing control.

Mickey hooked one strong leg around Ian's hip trying to draw him closer, pleading with his body, if not his words.

Dropping the bottle to the floor, Ian all but fell on Mickey, hands braced on the mattress on either side of Mickey's shoulders. Mickey's legs wrapped around Ian's hips, cradling him, almost like they were always meant to be joined there.

Taking Mickey's mouth in a deep kiss, Ian began to ease his cock inside. Ian had to see Mickey's face, wanted to memorize every second, as he pushed into the punishing heat of his body, feeling the sweat break out on his forehead as he forced himself to go slow, determined to make this reunion perfect for Mickey.

With more care than he had ever attempted with anyone else, Ian moved his hips in tiny increments, in and out, going just a little deeper with every push, so entirely focused on Mickey, trying to make him feel good, that it was almost a surprise when his hips met Mickey's ass, unable to go any deeper. They both froze, staring at each other for the longest time. Then Mickey tightened around his cock, and they both gasped. It was different, somehow, face to face. Taking Mickey from behind had its pluses, he could get his mouth all over the pale column of his neck, squeeze his ass with both hands as he drove into him, but  _ this _ . He felt like he was being flayed open, so raw and every emotional broadcasting across his face. His cock was throbbing with want.

Ian couldn’t help himself. He pulled out and thrust back in, hard. Mickey's breath caught and the muscles in his arms tensed as he gripped the bar above his head. The bed creaked as Ian thrust again, both of them panting.

“Now make me come, bitch.” 

Ian’s eyes flicked first up, in amusement to those soft blues, then down, where Ian could see that Mickey was hard, dripping with precum. Shifting his weight, he took Mickey's cock in his hand, stroking and twisting. Mickey's reaction was purely instinctive as he used his legs to pull Ian closer, taking his cock all the way to the hilt, pushing Ian balls deep as he rubbed Mickey’s cock. Mickey began to roll his hips up, using his legs to steer and direct Ian's thrusts, taking back some of the control, intoxicating Ian. Whatever felt good to Mickey, whatever he wanted was more than good enough for Ian.

Better than good. Every thrust into Mickey's ass sent him higher, pleasure surging. Wanting Mickey to feel just as good as he did, Ian continued to stroke, the bed groaning as they found a rhythm, moving together, the slap of flesh on flesh mingling with their panting breaths.

Suddenly, Mickey's body went impossibly tight around his cock, forcing a too loud cry of pleasure from Ian. Sticky wetness spilled over his hand, Mickey's come spattering both of them. That was all Ian could take. Pleasure rolled over him, his hips snapping out a last few thrusts as he came deep inside Mickey.

Sweaty and spent, Ian blinked back to awareness. All he wanted to do was collapse on Mickey and fall asleep, surrounded by his warmth and scent, but he thought he shouldn’t. Instead, he leaned up, aware that he was basically squashing Mickey, and ready to move, but as soon as he tried to roll off, Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian, smoothing his hands over Ian's back and ass. Ian breathed a deep sigh of acceptance, letting his body melt over Mickey like a blanket. 

The bunk was too narrow for the two of them, but they finally managed to curl together, Mickey's head on Ian’s shoulder. Mickey's hand kept wandering, fingers combing through Ian's chest hair, then down to his belly, then lower. With Mickey's hand rubbing circles on his thigh, Ian began to drift. The last thing he remembered thinking before he fell into a deep sleep was that tomorrow he could wake up and Mickey might be gone, all just a dream. 

He tightened his arm instinctively and a sleepy little grumble reassured him. This was no delusion. Mickey was with him, would be with him when he woke up, and when he went to bed the next night. And the next night. And the night after that. All the nights after that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the line "Now make me come, bitch" is from Promised Land, but in my defense- can you blame me?  
> This one was a good one, I had fun and it flowed easily.


End file.
